THE    RED    ANVIL 


THAT    WAS    VERY    RUDE    OF    US    BOTH,      BESS    SAID." 

—Page  S3- 


THE  RED 


A  Romance  of  Fifty 
Years  Ago 


By 

Charles  Reginald  Sherlock 

Author  of  "Your  Uncle  Lew" 
m^H^MH-4  'l-l'  I  I   I   I    I  I  'l-M-M-4  M    I   I    I  I   I  M 


With  Frontispiece  by  WALTER  RUSSELL 

_t_._t.  .t.-.t  J...t  .t...u  .j-..tr  -t — t    I    t    I-  t-  *j— 4^*1— 4*  *t"'t'  'l'"l'  '^  'fr  '^'  '^  '^  '^  '*"*f"* 

-^*-*l>    f    T    T     r    *     *     * 


.   .'.   Safe  on  freedom's  vantage  ground 

Our  feet  are  planted  :   let  us  there  remain 

In  unrevengeful  calm,  no  means  untried 

Which  truth  can  sanction,  no  just  claim  denied, 

The  sad  spectators  of  a  suicide. 

They  break  the  links  of  Union  :  shall  we  light 

The  fires  of  hell  to  weld  anew  the  chain 

On  that  red  anvil  where  each  blow  is  pain  ? 

—  JOHN  GREENLEAF  WHITTIIR 


^H-^H-M-M-^MH- 


iorfc 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 

Publishers 


COPYRIGHT,  1902, 
BY  FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


All  Rights  Reserved 


PUBLISHED  IN  MAY,  1902 


TO  MY  MOTHER  AND  MY  WIFE 

TO  HER  WHOSE  GIFTS  WERE  TO 
ME  A  HOPE,  TO  HER  WHOSE 
COURAGE  IS  MY  STRENGTH, — TO  A 
BLESSED  MEMORY  AND  A  PRESENT 
HELP — THIS  BOOK  IS  AFFECTION 
ATELY  DEDICATED  BY  THE  AU 
THOR. 


The  Red  Anvil. 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE  next  time  you  chance  to  pass  that  way  make 
it  a  point  to  know  Smithboro  better.  Should  it  be 
your  good  fortune  to  find  the  place  under  a  sum 
mer's  sun,  say  in  July  or  August,  gladness  will 
possess  your  soul  that  you  broke  your  journey 
there.  A  spirit  of  perfect  restfulness  pervades  its 
elm-embowered  streets.  All  about  where  the  shad 
ows  of  the  spreading  branches  of  those  majestic 
trees  lie  upon  the  gravelled  roads,  the  flagged  path 
ways,  the  shingles  and  the  clapboards,  are  calm  and 
contentment.  Calm  and  contentment  are  of  the 
air  of  Smithboro,  as  if  the  old  village,  like  a  man  in 
the  fullness  of  his  years  with  life's  finished  work 
behind  him,  were  keeping  vigil  there  that  he  might 
complete  a  brave  career  with  as  brave  an  end.  It 
is  a  noble  survival  awaiting  the  final  stroke. 

Smithboro  has  not  always  stood  thus  beckoning 
us  to  the  beyond.  It  had  a  voice  once  that  sounded 
by  no  means  faint  and  feeble  in  the  national  coun- 


2  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

cil.  It  was  a  cry  in  the  wilderness,  without  ques 
tion,  but  in  Washington,  where  the  foundations  of 
the  Republic  were  already  beginning  to  rock  under 
the  shock  of  inevitable  rebellion,  it  fell  ominously 
on  ears  deafened  by  the  roar  of  the  coming  storm. 
In  all  the  land  there  was  no  protest  against  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law  louder  than  that  which  Smith- 
boro  put  forth. 

"  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  boys,"  Lyman  Disbrow, 
the  picture-taker,  had  declared  to  a  knot  of  earnest 
men  at  the  Lafayette  Hotel,  "  I  tell  you  what  it  is. 
You're  makin'  hist'ry  here  in  Smithboro,  an'  you 
don't  know  it.  A  hundred  years  from  now  they'll 
be  readin'  'bout  Smithboro  jest  as  we  do  'bout 
Philippi,  an'  Thermopylae,  an'  Bunker  Hill,  an' 
Waterloo,  an'  Vera  Cruz.  So  that's  why  I  keep 
tellin'  you,  if  you  want  to  have  your  pictures  in  the 
fust  reader,  'long  with  Julius  Caesar,  Esquire,  an' 
Mr.  Horatius  at  the  bridge,  an'  Gen.  Mad  Anthony 
Wayne,  an'  the  Duke  of  Wellington,  an'  Gen. 
Scott,  the  sooner  you  come  'round  to  the  wagon 
the  better  for  all  consarned.  It  ain't  your  money  I 
want — doggone  it,  no  ;  it's  for  hist'ry  and  the  glory 
of  Smithboro  I'm  wastin'  my  breath.  Pictures  are 
made  when  the  sun  shines,  an'  it's  gettin'  mighty 
cloudy  in  these  diggin's — mighty  cloudy." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  3 

The  peculiar  emphasis  the  picture-taker  laid  on 
the  final  word  of  this  little  advertisement  of  his 
business  was  not  to  be  overlooked  in  such  a  gather 
ing. 

"Spit  out  what  you  mean,  Lyme  Disbrow,"  said 
one  of  those  who  listened,  in  a  rasping  voice. 
"  'Taint  no  secret  in  Smithboro,  no  sir,  that  a  nig 
ger  come  in  on  the  Underground  last  night,  who's 
goin'  to  stay  right  here  in  Smithboro  long  'nough 
to  ring  the  meetin'-house  bell  to-morrer.  We're 
goin'  to  show  what  we  think  of  slave-huntin'  'round 
here,  jest  for  onct.  And  if  you  vvere's  good  a  man's 
your  brother,  the  preacher,  Lyme  Disbrow,  you'd 
take  a  hand  in  it  to-morrer  'long  with  the  rest  on 
us." 

"  Every  man  to  his  trade,"  was  Disbrow's  unim- 
passioned  reply  to  this  arraignment  of  his  patriot 
ism.  "  Mine's  takin'  pictures,  an'  when  it's  cloudy 
the  machine  won't  work.  It's  none  o'  my  funeral 
how  many  runaway  niggers  come  to  Smithboro. 
Doggone  it,  no  !  You  see  I  can  move  out  any  time 
if  I  don't  like  the  looks  o'  things.  That's  where  a 
feller  on  wheels  's  got  the  bulge  on  the  feller  with 
the  go-devil." 

"  P'raps  some  folks'll  be  run  aout  of  Smithboro  if 
they  don't  git  one  side  or  t'other  party  dum  quick, 


4  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

This  from  the  same  quarter  of  the  hotel  piazza,  as 
the  preceding  assault. 

"  Likely's  not,"  Disbrow  rejoined  without  ap 
parent  resentment  that  his  neutrality  touching  the 
"higher  law,"  which  was  swaying  Smithboro,  was 
likely  to  result  in  anything  so  disastrous  to  his  per 
sonal  safety  ;  "  but  I  had  thought  my  feet  was  on 
the  rock.  I've  always  said  I  b'lieved  a  white  man 
was  as  good's  a  nigger  any  day,  so  'long's  he  be 
haved  himself.  An'  as  for  bein'  run  out  of  town, 
when  that  catastrophe  happens,  I'll  set  up  in  busi 
ness  somewhere  on  Genesee  Street.  Maybe  there 
are  them  among  you  who  thinks  all  there  is  on 
earth  is  here  in  Smithboro.  Doggone  it,  no ! 
Genesee  Street  runs  clean  through  New  York  State 
from  Albany  to  Buffalo.  That's  the  main  road. 
Out  there  you  see  the  cars  go  by,  look  up  at  the 
telegraph  poles,  an'  hear  the  news.  Boys,  it's  a 
good  thing  to  git  away  from  Smithboro  once  in  a 
dog's  age.  We  live  an'  learn — if  we  don't  live  in 
Smithboro  all  the  time." 

As  a  sign  that  he  had  nothing  more  to  say  on  the 
subject  in  hand  Lyme  Disbrow  knit  his  brows, 
drew  down  the  lids  of  his  eyes,  puckered  his  lips, 
and  then  whistled  a  few  measures  of  the  old  jingle 
which  went  with  the  words : 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  5 

"  He's  bound  to  run  all  night, 
He's  bound  to  run  all  day, 
I'll  bet  my  money  on  the  bob-tail  nag, 
Somebody  bet  on  the  bay." 

When  Lyme  Disbrow  whistled  he  had  no  more 
breath  to  waste  on  words.  The  measure  of  Smith- 
boro's  provincialism  which  he  had  taken  in  his 
closing  observation,  however,  fitted  nobody's  ideas 
but  his  own,  and  consequently  its  sting  was  lost  on 
the  listening  villagers.  The  force  of  Lyme  Dis- 
brow's  remarks  frequently  missed  the  comprehen 
sion  of  the  common  throng;  but  as  Smithboro  did 
not  know,  it  did  not  care  how  far  its  present  im 
pulses  carried  it. 

A  wayward  urchin  hurling  stones  over  the  sheer 
sides  of  a  precipice,  heedless  of  the  harm  they  do 
as  they  bound  from  ledge  to  ledge,  is  no  more  reck 
less  of  results  than  was  this  sequestered  village 
of  hardly  one  thousand  souls,  challenging,  as  it 
did,  the  great  powers  of  the  Government  and  of 
the  Government's  laws,  to  defeat  the  laws  Smith 
boro  would  make  unto  itself.  This  is  what  Smith 
boro  did  out  of  the  goodness  of  its  heart,  out  of  the 
purity  of  its  purposes,  out  of  what  it  conceived  to  be 
the  highest  of  patriotic  motives.  This  was  Smith 
boro,  then,  as  now,  elm-embowered  and  self- 


6  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

contained,  just  as  it  had  been  set  down  among  the 
Madison  hills  by  the  sturdy  pioneers  who  founded  it. 
Off  the  beaten  track,  it  lay  nestling  in  what  it 
regarded  as  the  garden  spot  of  all  the  world,  as 
content  as  a  hermit  of  eld  in  its  chosen  isolation. 

Hence  it  was  that  Lyinan  Disbro\v's  little  fling 
that  Smithboro  might  possibly  profit  by  a  closer 
connection  with  Genesee  Street — that  great  artery 
of  traffic  through  which  the  life  of  New  York  State 
pulsed  and  beat — passed  unheeded.  Truth  to 
tell,  it  was  Smithboro's  preference  to  shut  out  the 
shriek  of  the  locomotive  and  those  other  disturbing 
noises  that  belong  to  progress. 

Smithboro  found  glory  enough  in  its  connection 
with  the  Underground  Railroad.  Was  it  not  in 
touch  with  the  whole  world  through  this  mysteri 
ous  linking  of  a  thousand  heart  strings?  No 
bands  of  steel  throbbing  with  trafficking  mankind 
could  match  its  unique  achievements. 

The  Underground  Railroad!  What  a  marvellous 
institution  it  was!  Through  its  length,  reaching 
from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico  to  the  Canadian  frontier, 
here  was  a  thoroughfare  that  did  not  represent  the 
ballasting  of  a  foot  of  track,  the  driving  of  a  single 
spike,  the  laying  of  an  inch  of  iron.  Without 
locomotives  to  draw  its  cars,  without  cars  to  be 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  7 

drawn,  without  rails  to  draw  them  on,  the 
Underground  Railroad  was  a  line  of  communication 
as  noiseless  as  a  dream,  as  potential  as  an  earth 
quake.  Unsurveyed,  unmapped,  unrouted,  its 
tortuous  course  wras  like  an  unblazed  path  in  the 
trackless  forest,  leading  from  serfdom  to  liberty. 
Over  it  there  passed  a  phantom  pageant  of  hunted 
fugitives,  criminals  in  the  eye  of  the  law,  for  no 
better  reason  than  that  in  the  providence  of  God 
their  skins  were  black  instead  of  white.  By  day, 
by  night,  they  kept  the  weary  way,  as  men  and 
women  will  when  under  the  lash  of  pursuit ;  help 
less  creatures  who  peered  into  every  human  face 
they  saw  with  prayerful  terror  lest  the  next  step 
should  plunge  them  back  into  hopeless  captivity. 
A  cryptic  railroad  this  whose  only  code  was  one  of 
danger  signals — a  symbol  simply  of  patriotic  out 
lawry.  The  North  Star's  beams  were  head-lights 
flashing  along  its  hidden  way.  It  coupled  human 

o  o 

hearts  in  trains  and  ground  beneath  the  silent 
wheels  of  hope  the  supine  law.  From  Arcadian 
everglade  and  bayou  to  the  borderland  of  the 
Arctic  wastes  it  clove  a  path  over  which  Freedom 
took  its  long  pilgrimage.  It  joined  the  lazy  zephyr 
of  the  cypress  swamp  with  the  frosty  blast  of  the 
North.  It  twined  the  myrtle  with  the  jasmine. 


8  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Along  its  stretches  wafted  the  orange  grove's  pleasant 
perfume  to  be  lost  at  last  in  the  balsam-laden  air  of 
the  Promised  Land.  Its  mile  posts  led  the  wanderer 
singing  from  canebrake  and  cotton  field  to  where 
he  stood  in  mute  awe  of  Niagara's  roar.  This  was 
the  poetic  side.  Tragedy,  too,  it  had,  bitter  and 
barbaric,  for  wherever  the  cross  is  carried  we  find 
the  stain  of  blood. 

To-day  the  Underground  Railroad  is  but  a 
cluster  of  memories  sweetened  by  the  odours  of  the 
pomegranate  and  the  rose.  A  highway  no  longer, 
above  its  sacred  soil  there  springs  a  wealth  of 
blooms  of  North  and  South,  in  whose  luxuriant 
tangle  the  last  vestige  of  sectional  strife  lies 
forever  strangled.  From  it  let  us  hope  we  may  be 
able  to  pluck  the  simple  flower  of  romance. 

We  shall  take  our  bearings  from  Smithboro,  for 
Smithboro  was  more  than  a  way  station  on  the 
Underground  Railroad. 


CHAPTER  II. 

IF  you  would  have  Smithboro  in  your  eye  stand 
with  your  back  against  the  giant  elm,  which  rears 
itself  in  stately  authority  at  the  Northwest  corner 
of  the  village  green,  and  deliberately  circumnavigate 
its  great  trunk.  Everything  that  concerns  us  in 
the  pursuit  we  have  undertaken  comes  into  view  in 
this  adaptation  of  the  panoramic  process  to  the 
optical  faculty.  It  is  a  better  eerie  for  our  purposes 
than  the  band-stand  in  the  middle  of  the  grass 
plot,  a  distinctly  modern  structure  in  which  both 
the  carpenter  and  painter  went  the  chromatic  scale 
one  better,  making  it  octagonal  in  form  and  in 
colour  as  diverse.  Face  north  at  the  foot  of  the 
big  tree  and  the  vision  sweeps  down  a  long  street, 
which  at  its  end  (if  that  is  the  end  we  see)  seems 
to  tunnel  into  the  side  of  a  green  hill.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  the  village  street,  turned  country 
road  at  that  point,  swings  around  the  green  hill 
and  takes  its  way  along  the  bank  of  Otselic  Creek 
to  Morristown,  the  county  seat.  Toward  the 


io  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

south,  the  opening  stretches  out  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach.  Thither  lies  Canasango  and  the  rail 
road,  not  the  Underground,  but  the  iron  wedge 
with  which  the  Vandcrbilts  even  as  early  as  that 
had  begun  to  split  the  State  in  twain  like  an  apple. 
East  and  west,  when  you  cast  your  eyes  in  those 
directions,  they  will  gratefully  range  under  an 
arboureal  shelter  of  interlaced  leaves  down  spaces 
that  about  equal  in  extent  three  or  four  city 
blocks.  Fronting  on  the  four  sides  of  the  green 
are  the  business  places  of  Smithboro,  all  in  a  row  by 
themselves ;  three  churches,  no  two  of  which 
adjoin,  thus  emphasizing  the  fact  that  harmony 
possible  in  trade  rivalry  is  impossible  in  the  realm 
of  religion  ;  the  fire-engine  house,  supporting  a 
shining  bell  in  a  tiny  cupola  affixed  to  the  apex  of 
its  angled  roof,  and,  beneath  it,  the  only  gilded 
signboard  in  Smithboro,  which  bears  the  legend,  in 
graceful  curve,  "  Deluge  Fire-Engine  Company,  No. 
I  ; "  the  tavern,  built  of  unhewn  stone  with  its 
gables  to  the  street,  its  long,  two-storied  piazza,  held 
up  by  rounded  posts  hinting  at  Colonial  origin  ;and, 
all  by  itself  on  one  side  of  the  square,  a  dwelling 
of  the  pretensions  of  a  mansion,  built  in  manor- 
house  style,  with  a  Corinthian-columned  facade 
fro\vnin<j  on  the  neighbouring  cottages  out  of  a 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  n 

garden  of  trellised  vines  and  tall  rose  bushes.  We 
shall  have  to  do  with  this  mansion,  and  its  owner, 
as  we  shall  have  to  do  with  the  little  blind  alley 
beside  the  little  white  church,  which  lets  into  thr 
open  space  of  the  green  at  its  farther  side.  Tin- 
church,  too,  is  to  play  its  part  in  this  drama  of  ours, 
and  so  are  the  tavern  and  the  engine-house. 

They  will  tell  you  in  Smithboro,  if  you  ask  the 
question,  that  this  blind  alley,  accessible  from  the 
street  and  ending  abruptly  three  rods  back  at  a 
board  fence,  is  village  property.  To  this  day,  how 
ever,  it  is  called  Disbrow's  Corner.  This  name  it 
derived  from  its  periodical  occupancy  fifty  years 
ago  by  Lyme  Disbrow  and  his  picture-gallery  on 
wheels.  In  fact  no  one  in  Smithboro  can  recall  the 
time  when  the  alley  was  otherwise  used.  When  the 
picture-taker  was  away  on  his  travels  the  alley 
stood  idle. 

Lyme  Disbrow  had  taken  the  picture  of  every 
body  in  Smithboro  and  of  everybody  in  Morristown 
and  Canasango  as  well,  and  there  is  not  a  family 
album  in  those  parts  to-day  that  does  not  contain 
choice  examples  of  his  skill  as  a  disciple  of  Da- 
guerre. 

As  turn  about  is  fair  play,  suppose  we  see  how  he 

looked  under  the  lens. 


12  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

On  Sunday  in  Smithboro,  in  the  days  when  Lyme 
Disbrow  was  in  the  land  of  the  living,  the  village 
wore  a  smarter  outside  than  on  any  other  day  of  the 
seven.  The  villagers  kept  the  Holy  Sabbath  of 
course,  for  it  was  always  a  devout  community,  but 
on  that  day  it  had  a  large  influx  of  worshippers  from 
the  neighbouring  country  to  enliven  its  streets. 
Most  of  them  came  to  pray  and  remained  to  curse. 
It  was  on  Sunday,  more  than  on  the  days  of  the 
week,  that  Smithboro  formulated  its  philippics 
against  negro  bondage  as  an  institution,  and  the 
Government's  heartless  recognition  of  it. 

We  start  with  a  Sunday  when  the  place  was 
ringing  with  the  news  that  the  bell  in  the  meeting 
house  was  to  be  tolled  by  "  a  nigger  who  had  come 
in  on  the  Underground  "  just  to  show  in  what  light 
regard  the  law  of  the  land,  which  forbade  the  har. 
bouring  of  fugitive  slaves,  was  held  in  Smithboro. 

Lyme  Disbrow's  picture-wagon  was  standing  in 
the  alley  and  Lyme  Disbrow  sat  on  its  steps  smok 
ing  a  pipe.  Staring  you  full  in  the  face  as  you 
came  upon  him  from  either  side  was  the  bold  em 
blazonment  of  his  art,  embellishing  in  huge  lettering 
the  two  sides  of  the  wasron : 


SECURE  THE  SHADOW  ERE  THE  SUBSTANCE  FADES. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  13 

This  motto  was  the  only  decorative  feature  of 
the  van.  The  painter  had  laid  on  the  colour  with  a 
lavish  hand,  doing  marvellous  things  with  his  brush 
in  shading  the  crimson  letters  with  green,  while  the 
ornamentation,  beginning  in  a  festoon  of  yellow 
roses  and  ending  in  a  pudgy  cupid  in  pink,  ex 
hausted  every  other  resource  of  his  palette.  This 
abode  of  art  in  which  Lyme  Disbrow  was  the  pre 
siding  genius  was  a  lumbering  affair,  half  house, 
half  wacron,  with  four  little  wheels  all  of  one  size 

o          ' 

under  its  long  bottom.  No  axles  in  that  part  of  the 
country  held  up  anything  like  it.  At  rest  it  was 
entered  from  the  rear  through  a  door  reached  by 
two  steps  fixed  to  an  iron  framework,  and  in  motion 
it  was  guided  from  the  front  through  a  broad  window 
provided  with  a  sliding  sash.  An  arched  roof  cov 
ered  the  wagon,  and  this  was  furnished  with  a 
skylight,  through  which  the  luminous  medium  of  the 
picture-taker's  art  shone  when  he  was  at  work.  At 
cither  side  of  the  door  in  the  rear  were  framed 
some  of  the  choicer  examples  of  the  picture-taker's 
artistic  productions,  with  a  simple  scroll  making  an 
nouncement  of  the  prices  at  which  they  could  be 
procured. 

To  a  considerable  portion  of  the  patronage  to 
which  Lyme  Disbrow  appealed  the  art  he  practised 


i4  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

was  a  black  art.  To  hold  the  sun's  rays  in  thrall 
certainly  appeared  to  be  an  uncanny  thing.  There 
were  dark  recesses  in  the  wagon,  too,  beyond  which 
no  one  save  the  picture-taker  ever  passed,  and  there, 
the  superstitious  folk  would  have  it,  Lyme  Disbrow 
brewed  a  devil's  broth.  In  the  fumes  of  the  collo 
dion  which  hung  about  the  place  like  a  mist  there 
was  proof  enough  for  them  that  he  worked  in  a 
diabolical  mystery.  There  were  folks  who  believed 
in  ghosts  who  had  never  seen  any  object  of  super 
natural  aspect  more  convincing  than  Lyme  Disbrow 
when  he  cowled  his  head  in  the  black  cloth  behind 
his  picture-taking  apparatus.  Lyme  took  no  trouble 
to  strip  himself  of  the  wizard's  mantle  with  which 
such  as  these  showed  an  inclination  to  clothe  him, 
for  he  found  in  this  belief  a  form  of  protection 
against  prying  eyes  that  no  amount  of  watchfulness 
would  have  guaranteed. 

What  had  he  to  hide  except  the  secrets  of  his 
trade?  Who  can  tell  ?  Possibly  all  that  was  going 
on  inside  the  four  sides  of  his  van  was  not  reflected 
on  the  ground-glass  of  his  camera.  These  times, 
we  must  remember,  are  not  our  times. 

So  he  went  his  way.  So  he  sat  smoking  his  pipe 
as  we  found  him  not  five  minutes  ago.  The  bell  i:i 
the  steeple  sticking  up  straight  above  his  nondc- 


THE   RED  ANVIL.  15 

script  vehicle  had  not  as  yet  given  tongue  to  the 
defiance  to  hear  which  every  ear  in  Smithboro 
opened  wide,  this  quiet  Sunday  morning. 

"  This  is  a  great  day  for  the  Disbrows,"  the  pict 
ure-taker  said  by  way  of  salutation  to  one  of  the 
early  comers  to  the  meeting  house,  a  tall  man  of 
clerical  cut,  whose  years  were  perhaps  five  and 
thirty.  This  was  the  Rev.  Abner  Disbrow,  "  the 
fighting  parson  of  Smithboro,"  whose  call  it  was  to 
serve  his  Master  in  that  little  church  whither  his 
steps  were  tending.  The  men  were  brothers,  but 
in  their  outward  semblance  there  was  nothing  in  the 
slightest  degree  consanguine,  unless  it  was  a  fleet 
ing  light  of  humour  that  shot  into  their  eyes  and 
seemed  to  explode  there.  The  serious  cast  in  the 
preacher's  face  was  obviously  not  a  birthmark. 
His  was  one  of  the  faces,  often  the  stamp  of  his 
sacred  profession,  wherein  it  was  seen  deep  thought 
had  "sicklied  o'er"  the  kindlier  lights.  Mr.  Dis 
brow  was  a  man  who  took  things  to  heart,  and  his 
heart's  interests  were  always  mirrored  in  his  face. 
Therein  you  could  read  as  in  a  book  the  state  of  his 
active,  vigorous,  but  naturally  happy  mind.  Until 
you  knew  him  as  well  as  the  people  of  Smithboro 
did  you  were  apt  to  misjudge  the  import  of  those 
harsher  lines,  and,  knowing  the  two  men  as  brothers 


16  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

wonder  over  their  apparently  diverse  temperaments. 
But  their  own  common  mother  had  endowed  them 
both  with  a  disposition  that  Lyman  carried  on  his 
sleeve  while  Abner  carried  it  in  his  heart. 

"  We  stand  for  the  eternal  fitness  of  things," 
Lyme  Disbrow  had  said  in  explaining  their  unfrater- 
nal  disparity.  "  You  see  Ab,  he  was  born  with  his 
head  in  the  clouds,  so's  he  wouldn't  have  to  shin 
up  trees  when  he  wanted  to  pull  down  the  truths 
from  heaven ;  while  me,  they  made  me  a  runt,  jest 
knee  high  to  a  grasshopper,  so's  I  could  grovel 
'round  'mong  the  earthworms.  If  Ab  came  to  my 
picture-shop  he'd  have  to  bend  like  a  barrel  hoop  to 
get  through  the  door;  if  I  went  to  his  gospel-shop 
I'd  have  to  stand  on  a  pile  o'  hymn  books  to  git 
my  head  above  the  pew.  That's  the  long  an'  the 
short  o'  the  Disbrow  family." 

As  he  squatted  this  Sunday  morning  on  the  steps 
of  his  wagon  Lyme  Disbrow  hardly  looked  the  dwarf 
he  had  pictured  himself.  In  reality  he  was  of  fair 
stature,  except  when  he  matched  his  height  beside 
that  of  the  preacher,  who  was  uncommonly  tall.  A 
perceptible  bow  to  his  legs  and  an  abnormal  eleva 
tion  of  his  shoulders  created  the  illusion.  He  was 
the  elder  of  the  two  brothers  by  ten  years,  though 
in  his  clean-shaven,  priest-like  face  there  was  less 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  17 

sign  of  age  than  showed  in  the  bearded  chin  of  the 
clergyman,  whose  black  hair  was  gently  dusted  with 
silver.  Not  a  fleck  of  gray  could  be  found  on  Lyme 
Disbrow's  head  of  curly  brown. 

Replying  to  his  brother's  dubious  glorification  of 
the  family  name  the  preacher  said  : 

"  My  sins  on  my  own  head,  Lyman.  If  you  refer 
to  the  hand  that  will  ring  the  bell  to-day,  I  shall 
bear  the  brunt  of  whatever  shame  or  glory  there  may 
be  in  this  our  crowning  act  of  defiance  to  that  most 
infamous  of  laws.  I  am  sorry,  Lyman,  you  can't 
share  my  pride  in  it.  Perhaps  the  sound  of  the 
bell  will  carry  farther  than  my  voice.  If  it's  treason 
let  them  make  the  most  of  it." 

"  Might  as  well  be  hung  for  a  sheep  as  a  lamb," 
was  Lyme's  unconsoling  word. 

"  They'll  make  it  hanging  next,  I  dare  say,"  said 
the  preacher  as  he  sauntered  into  the  meeting 
house. 

"There's  a  Christian  martyr  for  your  money," 
Lyme  went  on  to  say  as  another  villager  came 
within  the  blue  zone  of  tobacco  smoke  which  hung 
over  the  path  in  the  still  air  of  the  summer  day. 
"  Ab  there  says  maybe  hangin'll  be  the  next  thing 
they'll  do  to  stop  this  nigger  business,  an'  he  talks 
'bout  it  as  if  he'd  snap  his  fingers  at  the  gallus. 


i8  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Guess  he  would,  too,  seein'  as  how  he's  got  Disbrow 
blood  in  his  veins." 

"  Don't  b'lieve  you'd  care  a  mite,"  responded  the 
villager,  "  how  many  niggers  they'd  kill.  Nobuddy 
ever  hearn  toll  that  ye  set  much  store  by  niggers, 
eh?  "  Having  said  which  the  author  of  the  asper 
sion  on  the  picture-taker's  pro-slavery  sentiments 
went  off  into  a  boisterous  fit  of  laughter. 

"Oh,  I'm  as  tender-hearted  as  the  next  man," 
Lyme  Disbrow  said,  "  an'  allus  thought  it  was  a 
waste  o'  good  hemp  to  make  hangmen's  nooses  of 
it  ;  but  you  don't  git  the  idee.  You  won't  live 
long  'nough  to  see  any  niggers  dancin'  on  nuthin'  ; 
a  nigger's  wuth  money — good  money.  I'm  talkin' 
'bout  hangin'  white  men ;  they  don't  'pear  to  be 
wuth  much  o'  anythin'  compared  to  niggers." 

"  Some  white  men  aren't,"  came  the  biting  an 
swer,  and  its  clumsy  inference  fairly  represented 
Lyme  Disbrow's  standing  in  the  community. 

As  he  sat  there  on  his  wagon  steps  and  smoked, 
the  village  folk  gathered  in  force  on  the  four  sides 
of  the  green.  The  rallying  points  were  in  front  of 
the  three  churches.  At  first  the  little  groups  were 
formed  of  men,  but  by  and  by  a  few  women  came  to 
swell  the  throng.  This  was  before  a  single  blow  of 
the  bell  clappers  had  called  Smithboro  to  worship. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  19 

It  was  evident  enough  that  a  severe  strain  was  on  the 
good  people  of  the  village.  Wherever  they  stood 
there  was  a  nodding  of  heads  and  a  shaking  of  fingers. 
The  little  throng  about  the  door  through  which 
Mr.  Disbrow  had  passed  grew  more  rapidly  than  the 
others,  was  recruited,  in  fact,  by  men  and  women 
who,  in  twos  and  threes,  crossed  the  green  from  in 
front  of  the  other  churches  to  become  a  part  of  the 
animated  scene  it  furnished.  The  fact  was  not  to 
be  missed,  indeed,  that  on  that  spot  the  vision  of  the 
entire  village  was  bending  with  an  intent  interest 
that  betokened  it  as  a  storm  centre. 

Lyme  Disbrow  puffed  complacently  away  at  his 
pipe  at  the  edge  of  this  nervous  crowd,  which  now 
spread  out  so  far  as  to  overlap  the  alley  between 
his  wagon  and  the  meeting  house.  He  had  pulled 
a  silver  watch  from  his  vest  pocket,  and  was  prying 
its  case  open  with  his  thumb-nail,  when  Mr.  Dis 
brow  stepped  from  within  the  meeting-house  vesti 
bule  and  stood  out  in  the  sunlight  in  his  bare  head. 

There  was  an  instant  hush  of  the  whispered 
words,  and  an  expectant  flash  of  eyes  upon  the 
preacher's  face,  as  if  in  it  was  to  be  read  a  momen 
tous  message.  Across  the  green  two  women,  one 
of  whom  dragged  a  panting  boy  by  the  hand,  came 
running  in  an  agony  of  fear  lest  they  be  too  late. 


20  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

There  was  enough  humour  in  this  episode  to  relieve 
the  tension  of  the  moment,  and  it  had  that  effect, 
for  the  villagers  let  their  faces  relax  into  a  wave  of 
fitful  laughter. 

"  Ain't  it  about  time  for  meetin'  ? "  asked  a 
freckly  woman  of  Lyme,  who  still  pried  his  watch- 
case  with  his  thumb-nail. 

"Jest  'bout,"  rejoined  the  picture-taker.  "  Look 
out — there  he  comes.  The  elephant  now  goes 
round,  the  band  begins  to  play,  an'  the  boys  round 
the  monkey's  cage  had  better  keep  away." 

Before  he  had  half  finished  this  doggerel,  the 
whole  crowd  wheeled  about,  and  facing  the  mansion 
on  the  opposite  side  of  the  green  watched  the  prog 
ress  of  a  venerable  gentleman,  with  a  silk  hat  in  one 
hand  and  the  other  drawn  through  the  arm  of  a 
middle-aged  negro,  walking  from  the  gateway  of 
trellised  rose  bushes  to  the  door  of  the  meeting 
house.  An  enthusiast  in  the  crowd  would  have 
started  a  cheer,  and  audibly  suggested  it,  but  this 
demonstration  was  silenced  by  the  uplifted  hand  of 
the  waiting  preacher.  Way  was  made  for  the  es 
corted  negro,  to  whom  Mr.  Disbrow  reached  out  a 
welcoming  hand,  as  the  man  put  his  bare  feet  on 
the  church  step.  Without  loss  of  time  he  went 
inside  with  the  preacher,  and  while  every  neck 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  21 

craned  to  follow  him,  his  venerable  custodian  turned 
on  the  threshold  to  say  : 

"  Just  a  moment,  good  friends,  just  a  moment. 
They  will  call  this  law-breaking  in  Washington.  I 
am  satisfied  that  they  should  do  so.  Under  their 
vile  law  I  brand  myself  a  law-breaker, — I,  Peter 
Gerritt  ;  and  to  the  solemn  summons  our  hunted 
brother  will  now  toll  forth  from  this  bell,  dedicated 
to  God's  service,  let  us  answer  with  our  presence, 
that  we  may  in  this  fashion  shame  those  who  would 
by  human  law  undo  the  law  of  God  Almighty." 

Thus  saying  Peter  Gerritt,  the  best-beloved  man 
in  Smithboro,  led  his  townspeople  into  the  meeting 
house,  to  the  pealing  bell,  every  stroke  of  which 
proclaimed  through  the  tugging  muscles  of  a 
fugitive  slave  the  right  of  man,  of  whatever  colour, 
to  the  rewards  of  his  own  labour. 

As  the  last  wayfarer  disappeared  within  the  doors 
of  the  different  churches,  Lyme  Disbrow  sprayed  a 
pipeful  of  ashes  on  the  flags  under  his  feet  and  went 
into  his  wagon  whistling. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  the  course  of  two  hours  or  so,  the  little  meet 
ing  house  was  emptied  of  an  excited  throng  of 
townspeople.  With  a  degree  of  decorum  becoming 
the  day  they  took  their  various  ways  home,  but  the 
dramatic  element  in  the  scene  just  enacted  had  too 
deeply  stirred  their  emotions  to  allow  their  separa 
tion  to  partake  of  the  commonplace.  Never  before 
that  time  had  a  fugitive  slave  been  paraded  as  a 
token  of  popular  resistance  to  the  law  of  the  land. 
Smithboro  had  taken  an  initiative  the  consequences 
of  which  only  grim  prophesy  could  foretell.  Here 
tofore,  as  bold  as  had  been  the  operations  of  the 
Underground  Railroad,  there  had  been  a  pretense 
of  keeping  the  runaway  negroes  under  cover  while 
they  were  hurried  forward  from  Smithboro  to  the 
shores  of  Lake  Ontario,  a  matter  of  fifty  miles, 
where  they  embarked  at  Mexico  Point  for  places  of 
refuge  in  Canada.  So  far  as  the  Smithboro  station 
was  concerned  this  was  the  last  stage  of  the  journey, 
and,  albeit  it  was  reputed  to  be  a  well-travelled 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  23 

path,  not  everybody  who  kept  his  eyes  open  could 
say  when,  by  whom  and  by  what  methods  the  law 
was  being  circumvented.  For  example,  there  were 
those  who,  while  sympathizing  with  the  underground 
movement,  did  not  actively  engage  in  it  ;  and  they 
took  pains  to  be  in  no  position  to  betray  its  peril 
ous  secrets.  Of  this  class  of  people  there  were 
many  in  Smithboro,  whose  complaisance,  it  may  be 
observed,  was  much  more  aggravating  to  the 
avowed  advocates  of  pro-slavery  measures  than  the 
most  desperate  machinations  of  the  Abolitionists. 
It  was,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  the  prevalence  of  silent 
acquiescence  in  the  village  that  made  Smithboro  a 
focal  point  in  Abolition  activities. 

Such  an  event  as  we  have  just  witnessed  was 
bound  to  have  inflamed  the  wrath  of  those  who 
stood  with  the  law  upon  the  great  issue.  Clem 
Jones,  the  landlord  of  the  Lafayette  Hotel,  was,  of 
all  among  this  minority,  most  outspoken. 

"  Clement  Jones,"  he  said  that  morning,  "  is  for 
one  dead  set  agin'  this  sort  o'  thing.  The  law's  the 
law,"  he  went  on,  "and  as  long's  we've  got  it,  obey 
it.  That's  my  way.  An'  though  I  don't  like  the 
hull  paraphernalia  I  just  knuckle  down  and  pay  my 
taxes  and  what  I  don't  like  I  votes  agin  at  town 
meetin'.' 


24  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Clem  and  his  adherents  had  been  in  council  on 
the  tavern  steps  and  were  in  a  high  state  of  fever 
that  anything  so  monstrously  inimical  to  the  fair 
name  of  Smithboro  as  the  bell  ringing  should  have 
been  successfully  carried  out.  There  was  a  sus 
picion  that  personal  interest  entered  into  Mr. 
Jones's  declaration  of  principles,  because  it  hap 
pened  that  to  a  considerable  extent  the  people 
who  would  lift  up  the  black  man  would  stamp  un 
der  foot  the  black  bottle.  The  Abolition  trade  at 
the  bar  of  the  Lafayette  Hotel  was  hardly  an  avail 
able  asset. 

Hence  there  had  been  a  deal  of  wild  talk  on  the 
tavern  steps.     This  was  listened  to  with  keenest  in 
terest  by  a  knot  of  untidy  boys,  the  unruly  juvenile 
element  of  Smithboro,  who  alone  gave  it  expression 
later  on  when,  scattered  about  the  green  opposite 
the  meeting  house,  they  waited  the  dismissal  of  the 
congregation,  to  hoot  and  jeer  the  runaway  negro 
as  he  came  out  under  the  guidance  of  Peter  Gerritt. 
"  Nigger,  nigger,  never  die, 
Black  face  and  chiny  eye, 
Crooked  nose  and  crooked  toes, 
That's  the  way  the  nigger  grows." 

In  this  urchin  chorus  these  youthful  miscreants 
broke  forth  to  the  obvious  disturbance  of  the  spec- 


THE  RED  ANVIL-  25 

tacle's  solemnity.  They  were  driven  back  only  to 
reassemble  to  the  same  rallying  cry.  Not  until 
Lyme  Disbrow,  emerging  from  his  wagon  with  a 
long-lashed  whip  which  he  flourished  above  his 
head  in  ominous  circles,  followed  the  boys  hotfoot 
across  the  green  were  they  thoroughly  routed,  and 
were  Mr.  Gerritt  and  his  evidently  cowed  charge 
able  unmolested  to  make  their  way  out  of  sight  be 
hind  the  rose  bushes. 

Lyme  came  back  laughing,  as  he  had  gone  forth, 
and  to  the  oft-repeated  congratulations  and  praises 
of  the  church  folks,  answered  : 

"  They  don't  mean  no  harm.  Doggone  it,  no ! 
Boys  will  be  boys." 

Then  he  tossed  his  whip  into  the  open  door  of 
the  wagon  and  joined  his  brother,  the  preacher, 
who  had  come  out  of  the  church  too  late  to  have 
witnessed  the  little  comedy. 

A  man  whose  face  was  spotted  with  purple,  due 
to  rage  fuming  within  him,  rushed  up  to  Mr.  Dis 
brow  to  say  that  the  demonstration  of  hostility  to 
the  fugitive  was  in  his  opinion  a  forerunner  of  com 
ing  trouble. 

"  Taint  the  boys  of  this  here  teown,"  he  said, 
"that's  done  this  here.  It's  men  who  egged  the 
boys  on,  that's  what  'tis.  And  "—for  the  first  time 


26  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

noticing  Lyme — "you're  one  on  'em,  1  jest  betcher. 
You  can't  fool  this  chicken  no  haow,  Mr.  Lyman 
Disbrow.  You  'blieve  in  takin'  a  whip  to  niggers 
jest  as  you  did  to  them  boys  yender." 

The  preacher  made  a  gesture  of  gentle  rebuke 
and  gravely  shook  his  head  in  a  way  that  plainly  in 
dicated  his  disbelief  in  this  aspersion  on  the  family 
honour. 

"  Brother  Benson  "  were  his  words,  "  let's  not 
count  anybody  an  enemy  of  our  cause  until  he  is 
proved  to  be  so.  We  have  too  many  already." 

"  Then  why  don't  that  brother  o'  yourn  jine  us  in 
our  holy  work,  thet's  what  I  say.  He's  nuther  one 
thing  nor  t'other,  and  that's  wuss  than  bein'  a  slave- 
hunter,  thet's  what  I  say." 

This  interrogatory  of  Benson's  showed  that  neu 
trality,  whichever  way  it  leaned,  was  of  all  attitudes 
in  Smithboro  the  most  unpopular. 

Lyme  Disbrow  whistled  the  matter  down  the 
wind,  thereby  giving  notice  that  he  was  not  in  an 
argumentative  mood,  and  his  brother,  finding  con 
troversy  ill-attuned  to  his  contemplation  of  the 
occasion,  with  a  kindly  admonition  to  the  wrathful 
Benson,  moved  off  arm  in  arm  with  the  picture- 
taker  towards  his  home. 

The  brothers  seldom  spoke  to  each  other  upon 


THR  RED  ANVIL.  27 

the  question  of  slavery  and  the  plans  adopted  in 
Smithboro  to  hasten  its  suppression.  As  they  went 
along,  had  not  Lyme  asked  if  Abner  had  so  worded 
his  sermon  that  day  that  the  government  at  Wash 
ington  would  think  itself  specially  invited  to  come 
and  arrest  him,  conversation  would  have  taken  a 
less  timely  turn.  As  it  was,  and  the  preacher  said 
so,  he  had  refrained  from  making  the  occasion  as 
theatrical  as  the  opportunity  afforded.  There  had 
been  a  dread  significance  in  the  appearance  of  the 
negro  with  his  hands  on  the  bell  rope  that,  to  a  man 
of  Mr.  Disbrow's  deep  consciousness,  beggared  the 
power  of  mere  words.  The  incident,  portentous  in 
itself,  carried  its  own  message.  He  had  felt  that  it 
would  have  belittled  the  event  to  have  attempted 
to  emphasize  it  with  theatrical  rhetoric.  He  had 
therefore  delivered,  he  said,  a  plain,  unimpassioned, 
deliberate  sermon  the  truths  of  which,  as  he  saw 
them,  he  hoped  might  take  hold  on  those  listeners 
who  had  been  brought  to  the  church  more  by  idle 
curiosity  than  by  patriotic  sympathy. 

"  I  strove,  as  I  have  always  striven  since  I  en- 
tered  on  this  crusade,"  the  preacher  explained,  "  to 
touch  the  consciences  of  the  people,  not  to  arouse 
their  passions.  What  is  more,  I  try  to  keep  the 
principles  we  are  holding  above  such  single  in- 


28  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

stances  of  cruel  wrong  as  may  come  to  our  notice. 
I  would  not  exalt  the  case  of  this  wretched  fugitive, 
whose  presence  among  us  to-day  marks  a  mile-stone 
in  the  progress  of  anti-slavery.  I  would  not  send 
him  on  his  way  in  a  frenzy  of  delight  that  he  had 
cheated  the  law.  Miserable  man,  perhaps  there 
was  small  danger  of  that,  for  he  sat  throughout  the 
morning  in  a  state  of  mortal  dread,  suspicious  even 
of  his  friends,  I  should  say.  But  he  was,  and  all 
others  like  him  are,  but  a  means  to  an  end." 

Mr.  Disbrow  spoke  with  so  much  fervour 
that  the  picture-taker  confined  himself  to  the 
remark : 

"  It's  a  bad  case  any  way  you  put  it,  Ab,  an'  no- 
buddy  knows  how  it  all  will  end,  if  an  end  there  is 
to  be." 

Thereupon  Lyme  took  from  his  brass-buttoned, 
blue  swallow-tail  a  letter,  the  contents  of  which  soon 
engrossed  the  attention  of  both  brothers.  In  it 
was  an  announcement  that  the  son  of  the  picture- 
taker  and  the  nephew  of  the  preacher  was  on  the 
point  of  graduation  at  the  Albany  medical  college, 
and  that  in  something  less  than  a  fortnight  he  would 
"hang  out  his  shingle"  under  the  umbrageous  shade 
of  the  Smithboro  elms. 

"  I  ought  to  have  asked  about  Win  long  before, 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  29 

Lyman,"  said  Mr.  Disbrow,  his  face  lighting  up 
with  a  new  glow  of  interest,  "but  my  mind  has  been 
so  full  of  other  things,  so  full  of  other  things  apart 
from  my  own  affairs  that  I  quite  forgot.  It's  really 
too  bad,  Lyman.  So  we're  to  have  a  full-fledged 
doctor  in  the  family.  You'll  go  to  Albany,  I  sup 
pose,  to  see  Win  graduate  ?  " 

Lyme  shook  his  head. 

"  The  boy'll  have  to  do  without  his  venerable 
parent  this  time,  an'  I  guess  he's  '  nough  of  a  Dis 
brow  to  worry  through  it.  It's  a  good  breed,  an' 
there's  no  better  puppy  in  the  litter  than  Winfield 
Scott  Disbrow — you'll  say  that  yourself,  Ab,  I 
know." 

To  this  outburst  of  parental  pride  the  preacher 
gave  cordial  assent,  for  Win  Disbrow  had  been 
more  son  than  nephew  to  him,  a  sharer  of  his  hum 
ble  habitation  from  the  boy's  childhood  to  sturdy 
youth,  while  his  father  played  the  rover.  The 
preacher  knew  that  the  gratification  of  the  young 
man's  ambition,  to  practise  medicine,  after  he  had 
pursued  his  preliminary  studies  with  Dr.  Nehemiah 
Sampson,  had  been  at  considerable  cost  of  money 
to  his  father.  The  obvious  propriety,  therefore,  of 
having  the  picture-taker  present  on  the  day  of 
graduation  was  on  that  account  not  urged. 


30  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  I've  cut  down  the  trees,  he'll  have  to  peel  the 
bark,"  was  Lyrne's  way  of  putting  it.  Then  he 
added:  "  An' I'm  no  great  shakes  at  bein' a  'cut 
up'  at  general  trainin',  so'd  better  stay  in  the  wagon 
lookin'  for  folks  to  cross  the  shadow  of  the  noonday 
sun." 

By  this  time  the  brothers  were  outside  the  preach 
er's  gate.  A  stretch  of  greensward  within,  dotted 
here  and  there  with  flowering  bunches  of  bleedirig- 
hearts  and  peonies,  surrounded  a  white  clapboarded 
house  of  simplest  architecture,  whose  front  and  sides 
blazed  out  in  a  riot  of  colour  from  among  the  masses 
of  climbing  roses.  In  this  cosy  nest  dwelt  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Disbrow,  and,  unblessed  as  they  were  with  a 
child  of  their  own,  the  joy  of  both  their  hearts  was 
Elizabeth  Malcolm,  lately  come  to  their  protection 
from  a  broken  home  in  Massachusetts  that  the 
preacher's  wife  had  once  called  her  own.  They 
were  sisters  bound  by  the  strongest  ties  of 
affection.  A  difference  of  thirteen  years  in  their 
ages,  even  less  than  their  temperaments,  made 
them  contrasting  pictures  of  womanhood.  At 
thirty-five  Mrs.  Disbrow  was  old  beyond  her  years. 
All  of  her  husband's  burdens  she  had  heaped  upon 
her  back  until  she  bent  under  the  load  like  a  Nor 
mandy  market-woman.  In  her  countenance  were 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  31 

reflected  all  his  cares,  all  his  sorrows,  and  all  his 
joys,  and  of  these  latter,  delight  in  the  happiness 
of  Elizabeth  was  a  crown  of  glory.  No  woman 
ever  lived  within  a  man  more  than  did  the  preacher's 
wife,  so  completely  indeed,  that,  until  the  advent  of 
her  sister,  the  home  she  was  making  lacked  every  one 
of  those  compensating  balances  which,  even  at  a 
sacrifice  of  perfect  domesticity,  sweeten  the  conjugal 
state.  Of  late,  or  since  he  had  taken  up  the  Aboli 
tion  cause  with  so  much  earnestness,  Mrs.  Disbrow 
was  haunted  by  a  fear  for  the  safety  of  her  husband 
that  was  sitting  at  his  hearth  as  a  death's  head  sits 
at  a  feast.  Yet  she  would  not  have  him  retreat,  for 
she  believed  in  him  as  she  believed  in  the  gospel  he 
expounded.  She  was  a  person  without  middle 
ground,  and  is  there  any  who  is  to  be  more  com- 
miserated  with  ?  This  is  why  she  could  with  diffi 
culty  abide  her  husband's  brother.  It  was  a 
crime,  heinous  and  unpardonable,  that  Lyman  did 
•lot  lift  up  his  brother's  hand  in  the  Abolition  cause. 
Lyme  was  no  stranger  to  Mrs.  Disbrow's  aversion. 
Hence  he  hesitated  to  enter  the  gate  at  which  the 
two  men  stopped.  But  being  at  war  with  no  one 
the  picture-taker  regarded  peace  with  Mrs.  Disbrow 
:is  not  a  total  impossibility,  so  he  went  in.  The 
women  had  not  attended  church  that  morning,  be- 


32  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

cause  Mrs.  Disbrow  had  collapsed  in  the  face  of 
what  she  had  magnified  into  an  ordeal,  and  Eliza 
beth  had  remained  at  home  to  console  and  minister 
to  her. 

The  visit  of  the  picture-taker  to  the  Disbrow 
household  brought  Elizabeth  Macolm  into  his  life. 
At  a  glance  (for  Lyme  Disbrow  could  look  through 
a  grindstone),  he  saw  that  two  sisters  could  not  be 
more  unlike.  Elizabeth's  view  of  things  was  much 
like  his  own.  She  was  one  of  those  who  looked  on 
the  bright  side.  This  was  as  plain  as  day  to  him  as 
he  carried  her  in  his  watchful  eye  for  the  first  ten 
minutes  of  their  acquaintance. 

"  We  won't  need  no  guide  to  perlite  deportment 
to  get  'long  together,"  Lyme  said  to  the  young 
woman  with  a  touch  of  gallantry  in  his  manner  that 
the  preacher  remarked  was  equal  to  Peter  Gerritt  at 
his  best. 

"  I'm  going  to  call  you  Uncle  Lyme,  if  you  don't 
mind,"  remarked  Elizabeth,  as  she  walked  straight 
up  to  him  and  planted  a  kiss  on  his  cleanly  shaven 
cheek.  At  this  he  straightened  up — as  much  as  his 
rounded  shoulders  would  allow — and  looked  as 
much  like  a  knight  in  armour  as  he  could. 

"  If  you  come  to  me  under  the  head  of  nieces," 
Lyme  said  next,  having  posed  as  long  as  he  thought 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  33 

proper,  "  you've  got  to  be  '  Liz'beth  to  me,  though 
that's  a  long  name  to  shout  when  it  comes  to  hand- 
in'  out  Christmas  presents." 

"  I  like  Bess  better,  Uncle  Lyme." 

The  picture-taker  liked  the  girl.  She  was  hale 
and  hearty  to  the  core.  He  was  not  long  in  mentally 
assorting  her — form  and  feature,  as  his  craft  had 
it — to  the  meagre  possibilities  of  the  accessories 
of  his  wagon.  A  professional  experience  covering 
many  years  had  not  been  thrown  away  on  Lyme 
Disbrow.  While  he  may  have  been  as  unknowing 
as  an  oyster  of  what  constituted  a  Grecian  type  or 
a  Phidian  pose,  he  had  by  the  practice  of  photography 
acquired  a  certain  sense  of  artistic  values  that  gave 
his  judgment  of  feminine  loveliness  some  worth. 
This  was  conceded  for  thirty  or  forty  miles  around 
Smithboro,  through  which  region  his  camera  enjoyed 
a  celebrity  that  stood  the  test  of  comparison  with 
the  greater  fame  of  the  city  photographers.  No 
wedding  within  reach  of  Lyme  Disbrow's  wagon 
was  complete  without  a  grouping  of  the  high  con 
tracting  parties,  the  groom  standing  behind  his 
seated  bride,  with  his  left  hand  lovingly  resting  on 
her  left  shoulder,  a  pose  delicately  suggestive  of  the 
very  essence  of  connubial  felicity.  Madison  county 
is  to-day  as  full  of  these  early  masterpieces  as  Italy 
is  of  Madonnas. 


34  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

In  the  trained  eye  of  the  picture-taker,  therefore, 
Bess  Malcolm  was  a  pleasing  sight.  Though  others 
did  not  apply  the  same  process  of  analysis — not 
being  so  artistic — they  were  as  free  to  say  she 
deserved  admiration.  She  was  a  slender,  willowy 
girl,  with  cheeks  as  round  and  as  lustrous  in  their 
tinting  as  a  damson  plum,  and  a  mass  of  brownish 
hair  that  heaped  up  about  her  shapely  head  like  a 
snowdrift.  If  perchance  any  details  such  as  these 
escaped  you,  the  arch  way  in  which  she  carried 
her  head  at  one  side,  as  if  it  were  cocked  to  hear  the 
tinkle  of  a  distant  bell,  gave  her  a  charm  that  was 
leaving  no  swain  in  the  village  heart-whole.  To  the 
endowments  of  nature,  Bess  added  a  rarer  feminine 
gift,  that  of  being  able  to  put  a  yard  of  ribbon  or  a 
bit  of  lace  to  the  best  use.  "  City  airs,"  this  faculty 
had  been  spitefully  called  by  the  other  girls  in  the 
village,  for  after  Bess  came  among  them  they  knew 
full  well  that  their  supremacy  had  gone.  Bess's 
home  had  not  been  so  far  from  Boston  that  she  had 
not  felt  its  enlivening  influence,  and  she  could  no 
more  help  bringing  it  with  her  than  she  could  help 
dimpling  her  rosy  chin. 

Lyme's  pleasant  meditations  upon  these  things 
came  to  a  sudden  end  when  Mrs.  Disbrow  entered 
the  room ;  but  just  as  suddenly  he  felt  himself 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  35 

restored  to  a  firm  footing,  even  there,  by  the 
unreserved  way  in  which  Bess  announced  to  her 
sister  that  she  and  Uncle  Lyme  were  to  be  friends. 
Lyme  Disbrow  was  alert  enough  to  see  that  if  he 
had  conquered  the  good  opinion  of  the  girl,  it  was 
in  despite  of  a  preconceived  dislike. 

"We'll  try  to  make  an  Abolitionist  of  him," 
Bess  cried,  "  and  I  don't  believe  that  he's  a  hopeless 
case." 

"Doggone  it,  no!"  rejoined  the  picture-taker; 
"  nuthin's  hopeless.  When  I  used  to  sell  lightnin' 
rods  an'  patent  churns,  there  was  a  feller  over 
near  Cider  Holler  who  thought  if  he'd  stick  up  a  rod 
or  churn  by  dog-power  he'd  be  invitin'  the  wrath  o'1 
high  heaven.  Well  one  fine  day  it  come  on  to  rain 
down  that  way,  and  goshallfishhooks  !  the  fust  thing 
he  knew,  his  barn  was  a  pile  of  ashes,  an'  the  cream 
he'd  been  churnin'  by  hand  was  soured  by  the 
thunder.  This  proves  you  never  can  tell  what 
heaven'll  do  when  it  comes  on  to  storm." 

"  That  sounds  like  a  parable,  Lyme,"  Mr  Disbrou- 
remarked.  "You  are  not  going  to  turn  preacher, 
too  ?  " 

"  Doggone  it,  no  !  not  yit  awhile  ;  but  I  jest  want 
you  to  know,  Ab,  I've  had  a  squint — jest  asquint-- 


36  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

at  heaven  to-day.     But  it  hain't  come  on  to  storm, 
— not  yit." 

Lyme  Disbrow's  eyes  were  on  Bess's  face  as  lie 
spoke. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  last  seen  of  the  negro  who  had  tolled  the 
meeting-house  bell  that  Sunday  morning  was  when 
the  door  of  Peter  Gerritt's  house  was  shut  behind 
him.  If  to-day  you  sought  his  name  you  would  find 
it  buried  in  oblivion.  Various  attempts  in  that 
direction  were  certainly  made  at  the  time  by  the 
bolder  advocates  of  the  law's  enforcement,  naturally 
by  Clem  Jones,  whose  frequent  disappearances  from 
the  Lafayette  Hotel  were  coming  to  be  regarded  with 
more  or  less  suspicion.  It  was  not  only  a  current 
rumour  in  the  village  that  he  kept  up  an  uninter 
rupted  line  of  communication  with  the  pro-slavery 
people  at  Syracuse,  but  the  story  was  likewise 
abroad  that  he  not  infrequently  harboured  under  his 
roof  spies  in  the  pay  of  Southern  planters,  whose 
business  it  was  to  block  traffic  on  the  Underground 
Railroad. 

But  nothing  came  of  these  attempts  at  discovery, 
nor,  for  the  time  being,  of  the  sensational  episode 
that  on  the  face  of  it  looked  so  much  like  a  defiance 


38  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

of  Government  power  impossible  to  lie  ignored  at 
Washington.  Iti  this  failure  to  magnify  the  bell-ring 
ing  into  an  event  of  stupendous  consequence  there 
was  undoubtedly  disappointment  on  both  sides — on 
the  part  of  the  Abolitionists  that  a  challenge  of 
law  so  carefully  planned  should  have  been  lost  sight 
of,  and  on  the  part  of  the  contrary-minded  that  an 
offense  so  flagrant  should  not  have  brought  down 
the  law  like  a  mailed  fist  upon  the  malefactors' 
heads. 

On  the  tavern  steps  one  week  after  these  occur 
rences  the  voice  of  the  people  was  for  war  on  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law.  The  Sunday  before,  as  we 
have  seen,  the  tavern  steps  gave  out  a  different  pro- 
nunciamento.  The  tavern  steps  were  an  open 
forum. 

"  Maybe  they  ain't  got  round  to  it,"  Lyme  was 
saying  to  the  flustered  crowd.  "  You  see  they're 
mighty  busy  down  there  in  Washington.  The  Under 
ground's  a  long  road,  let  me  tell  you,  an'  as  I  read  the 
papers  there's  hell  to  pay  all  'long  it.  Smithboro 
ain't  the  hull  universe,  though  some  of  you  folks 
think  'tis,  an'  'nuther  thing,  if  you  want  to  make 
this  here  Abolish  movement  look  like  a  harvest 
moon  why  don't  you  stir  your  stumps  ?  Why  don't 
you  rear  up  on  your  hind  legs  ?  Who  cares  whether 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  39 

a  nigger  or  Clem  Jones  rings  the  meetin '-house  bell ! 
They  don't  care  at  Washington.  Doggone  it,  no  !  " 

"  What  would  you  do  ;  you're  so  darnation 
smart?"  put  in  Simeon  Benson,  who,  had  he  the 
wit,  would  never  have  let  a  chance  pass  to  corner 
the  picture-taker. 

"What  would  I  do?"  answered  Lyme  contem 
platively,  as  he  struck  a  light  and  applied  it  to  his 
pipe.  "  Let's  see,  what  would  I  do  ?  " 

"  Nuthin',  I  betcher,"  Benson  said  ;  "  that's  'bout 
all  ye  kin  do  anyway.  That's  what  I  say." 

"  Maybe  'tis  nuthin'  that  I'd  do,"  Lyme  went 
on,  "  but  jest  for  greens  I'd  take  a  tintype  of  Sime 
Benson,  if  my  lens  would  stand  the  strain,  an'  then 
I'd  send  it  to  President  Fillmore  with  the  com 
pliments  of  Smithboro.  I  guess  that  'd  bring  a 
sheriff's  posse  here  in  double-quick  time  to  clean 
out  the  hull  town." 

Simeon  Benson  was  beyond  peradventure  the 
most  vociferous  Abolitionist  in  the  village,  the  first- 
comer  to  every  meeting  held  to  further  the  cause, 
the  last  to  go.  It  might  seem  to  be  a  perilous  thing 
to  make  him  the  butt  of  ridicule  in  Smithboro,  but 
Lyme's  pleasantry  did  not  pass  without  a  laugh. 

"  I  vote  in  favour  of  that  "ere,"  one  of  the  villagers 
had  the  temerity  to  remark. 


40  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"That's  what  I  might  do  fust  off,"  continued 
Lyme,  "  an'  after  that  I'd  have  a  little  fun  with 
<t\e  godlike  Daniel." 

The  mention  of  Daniel  Webster's  nickname  at 
.such  a  time,  and  in  such  a  place,  did  not  miss  fire. 
Hated  as  he  was  by  every  friend  of  emancipation, 
the  knowledge  that  he  was  even  then  abroad  in  the 
land,  bringing  the  irresistible  force  of  his  eloquence 
to  bear  in  an  effort  to  uphold  the  iniquitous  law, 
had  served  to  spread  more  or  less  dismay  through 
the  free  states.  Webster,  leaving  his  post  as  Sec 
retary  of  State,  had  put  on  the  armour  of  slavery  and 
gone  forth  as  a  champion  of  its  vested  rights,  facing 
the  very  people  whose  protest  against  his  course 
was  ringing  like  a  clarion  from  east  to  west. 

"  Webster's  to  be  in  Syracuse,  maybe  some  on 
you  know,"  added  Lyme,  drawing  inspiration  from 
the  evident  interest  provoked  by  the  mention  of 
the  man.  "  Why  don't  you  git  him  to  come  here  to 
Smithboro,  an'  then  make  him  walk  chalk  ?  " 

"  How'd  we  git  him  to  come?  "  inquired  one. 

"  Mightn't  we  sick  Clem  Jones  on  ter  do  it?" 
was  the  wise  suggestion  of  another. 

"  Git  Lyme  Disbrow  to  fetch  him,"  Sime  Benson 
proposed.  "  Daniel  Webster  '11  do  most  anything 
fur  Lyme  Disbrow.  That's  what  I  say." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  4I 

"  Leave  Lyme  alone,  Sime,"  said  the  next  speaker. 
'•'  He's  talking  sense.  Jiminy  crickets !  If  we 
could  only  do  it,  we'd  make  the  hull  on  'em  mighty 
sick." 

"  The  best  way  I  can  think  on,"  Lyme  proceeded 
to  say,  as  he  watched  the  effect  of  his  badinage, "  the 
best  way  is  to  give  out  that  Daniel  Webster  dassent 
come  to  Smithboro.  Pull  a  pig's  tail  if  you  want  to 
have  him  go  ahead." 

"  Then  when  we  had  him  here,  what  would  we 
do,  Lyme  ?  " 

"Might  duck  him  in  the  mill-pond,  eh  ?"  some 
one  said. 

"  Tar  and  feathers's  purty  good  for  sich  like  "  was 
the  suggestion  of  a  merciless  villager. 

"  By  cracky,  that's  what !  "  cried  another,  and 
there  followed  in  response  a  chorus  of  earnest 
affirmatives. 

These  impressionable  people,  under  the  stress  of 
their  emotions,  were  actually  cogitating  the  possi 
bility  of  such  a  ridiculous  proceeding. 

Lyme  thought  it  time  to  back  water. 

"Doggone  it,  no!"  he  ejaculated.  "Tar  and 
feathers's  too  good  for  him  if  half  what  you  fellers 
say's  true." 

"  Might   ride  him  on  a  rail,  to  boot,"  said  Lem 


42  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Haskins,  the  village  barber,  by  way  of  compro- 
i  n  ise. 

"  I'll  tell  you  !  "  cried  Lyme  in  the  next  breath. 
"  I'U  tell  you  ! — but  mind,  I'll  have  no  part  in  it,  for 
I've  other  fish  to  fry — but  if  you  can  coax  the  god 
like  Daniel  over,  there's  only  one  thing  to  do  and 
that's  to  burn  him  at  the  stake  !  " 

This  proposition  was  so  obviously  preposterous, 
that,  for  the  first  time,  the  excited  little  knot  of 
zealots  saw  how  impossible  was  the  device  which 
they  had  been  discussing,  and  most  of  them  went 
away  wondering  how  they  could  have  been  so  easily 
hoodwinked,  especially  as  the  picture-taker  was  well 
known  to  be  given  to  that  sort  of  thing. 

A  week  later  these  same  persons  were  accusing 
themselves  of  having  misjudged  Lyme  Disbrow. 

"  He  wa'n't  cuttin'  up  at  all,"  the  village  barber 
said.  "  How's  a  feller  to  tell  whether  he's  jokin'  or 
not?  Daniel  Webster  ought  to  be  burned  at  the 
stake." 

And  it  was  generally  admitted  that  Lyme  Dis 
brow  was  indeed  a  hard  nut  to  crack. 

The  point  was  that  Win  Disbrow— him  they  were 
presently  to  call  Dr.  Disbrow  in  Smithboro  and 
thereabouts — had  come  home  with  something  else 
than  his  diploma.  The  fact  that  into  his  hands  was 
to  pass  the  practice  of  Dr.  Sampson  was  quite  over- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  43 

shadowed  for  the  time  being  by  the  fact  that  he 
came  as  a  bearer  of  startling  news.  It  is  true  that 
Smithboro  had  been  wondering  if  the  young  doctor 
could  ever  fill  the  old  doctor's  shoes.  This  was  no 
mean  undertaking.  Dr.  Sampson  had  been  among 
these  people  for  a  half  a  century,  and  if  ever  a  wise 
man  culling  simples  had  engrafted  his  life  upon  the 
life  of  the  community  to  which  he  had  been  called 
as  a  ministering  angel,  Dr.  Sampson  was  that  man. 
Were  it  not  that  Dr.  Disbrow  was  to  be  the  succes 
sor  of  the  venerable  practitioner,  as  Dr.  Sampson  was 
on  the  point  of  laying  down  his  life  work,  by  reason 
of  advancing  years,  his  coming  would  have  been 
regarded  as  an  impertinence.  As  it  was  he  could 
not  have  returned  to  his  native  village  under  hap 
pier  auspices.  Nevertheless  the  young  doctor  was 
not  greeted  as  a  ministering  angel.  As  has  been 
said,  he  came  as  a  bearer  of  news. 

Out  of  his  pockets,  as  he  alighted  from  the  stage 
late  in  the  afternoon,  bulged  a  bulky  package  of 
newspapers,  to  which  he  himself,  quite  forgetting 
his  real  mission  among  these  people,  lost  no  time 
in  directing  attention.  In  these  prints  there  were 
accounts  of  Daniel  Webster's  visit  to  Syracuse 
the  day  before.  As  the  young  doctor  described  it, 
the  day  had  been  one  of  intense  anxiety  in  the 


44  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

neighbouring  city.  What  had  happened  filled  an 
important  page  in  history.  The  doctor  was  over 
flowing  with  this  intelligence,  and,  having  first  ap 
peased  the  popular  appetite  for  information  by 
giving  out  the  papers,  he  was  quickly  seized  upon 
by  Mr.  Disbrow — being  spared  hardly  time  to  em 
brace  his  father — and  carried  off  to  Peter  Gerritt's 
house.  It  having  chanced  that  he  was  held  over 
at  Syracuse  for  the  night,  on  his  way  from  Albany 
to  Smithboro,  Win  was  unexpectedly  made  a  wit 
ness  of  that  scene  of  early  June,  1851,  which,  with 
Daniel  Webster  as  its  central  figure,  set  the  country 
in  a  ferment.  It  was  to  a  recital  of  the  facts  that 
Mr.  Gerritt  was  bent  on  listening. 

With  one  or  two  others,  Mr.  Gerritt  and  Mr. 
Disbrow  sat  in  the  great  drawing  room  of  the  man 
sion  while  Win,  unable  to  check  the  enthusiasm  of 
youth,  paced  the  floor.  He  made  a  fine  figure,  his 
stalwart  frame  needing  nothing  of  the  ample  cut  of 
his  fashionable  clothes  to  show  him  off  as  a  rugged, 
lusty  fellow  of  twenty-four.  Easy,  if  not  especially 
graceful  in  his  bearing,  he  looked  as  strong  as  an 
ox,  and  in  his  head  he  had  eyes  as  kind,  eyes  that 
seemed  to  dominate  his  whole  being.  As  he  talked 
they  kindled  with  fire  and  gave  a  new  emphasis  to 
his  burning  words.  For  his  words  did  burn. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  45 

There  was  no  question  where  Win  Disbrow  stood 
on  the  slavery  question.  He  had  enlisted  with  the 
crusaders. 

"An  excellent  young  man,"  was  Mr.  Gerritt's 
estimate  of  the  young  doctor,  and  though  amiabil 
ity,  graciousness,  kindness  were  in  the  very  fibre  of 
this  splendid  old  gentleman  he  would  not  deviate 
from  the  truth  even  to  pay  a  simple  compliment. 

As  the  scenes  of  the  previous  day  at  Syracuse 
were  unfolded  by  their  narrator,  it  was  easy  to  dis 
cern  how  completely  Peter  Gerritt's  being  was 
wrapped  up  in  the  passing  events.  Pity,  and  a  pity 
that  swept  as  fingers  do  harp  strings  every  chord 
of  his  soul,  was  the  controlling,  guiding  force  in 
this  man's  nature  ;  but  if  ever  rage  contended  for  a 
footing  in  that  sweetest  of  characters,  it  was  mak 
ing  the  trial  then.  There  were  positively  moments 
when  the  benignity  of  his  face  hardened  into  lines 
of  travail  that  startled  his  friends.  Not  a  large 
man  when  measured  by  the  rule,  when  he  stood  up 
to  thank  the  young  messenger,  he  fairly  loomed, 
there  was  so  much  of  determination,  so  much  of 
actual  command  in  his  form,  that  on  the  instant 
changed  to  deepest  tenderness  as  he  said  : 

"  God  help  us  ;  I  am  very  sorry  for  it  all." 

There  had  been  a  ereat  deal  to  stir  the  heart  and 


46  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

torment  the  spirit  of  such  a  man.  From  a  balcony, 
overlooking  the  city-hall  park  in  Syracuse,  Dan 
iel  Webster  had  pronounced  the  doom  of  the 
•'  higher  law."  That  he  spoke  by  authority  there 
was  no  doubt.  With  all  the  power  of  which  he 
».vas  capable  he  had  driven  the  steel  into  the  peo 
ple's  hearts. 

"  It  was  awful  to  hear  him,"  the  young  doctor 
said.  "  He  seemed  to  tower  above  the  heads  of 
that  surging  mass  of  men  and  women  as  he  pro 
nounced  judgment  on  what  you  were  doing  here, 
on  what  we  have  been  doing  in  Albany.  I  am  not 
a  coward,  Mr.  Gerritt,  but  there  was  something  so 
terrible  in  his  words  that  I  felt  a  chill  steal  into  my 
heart  ;  then — and  I  confess  it — a  sudden  admiration 
for  a  power  so  wonderful,  so  grand,  so  fearful. 
Forced  out  of  hearing  by  the  crowd  that  packed 
the  open  space  below  him,  I  had  ventured  so  far  as 
to  get  into  the  building  from  which  he  spoke,  and 
by  main  strength  made  my  way  to  the  office  looking 
out  of  which  was  the  balcony  on  which  he  stood. 
Only  when  he  turned  was  I  able  to  see  his  face,  but 
I  needed  no  sight  of  that  to  be  held  spell-bound." 

"  He  is  a  great,  a  wonderful  man,  as  you  say," 
Mr.  Gerritt  broke  in  to  say.  "There  is  no  blame 
in  admiring  him.  But  the  greater  his  genius,  the 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  4? 

greater  the  sin  of  misusing  it.  He  called  us  trai 
tors  ?  You  heard  what  he  said  ?  " 

"  Every  syllable  of  it." 

To  a  scrap  of  paper,  which  he  had  been  clutching 
in  his  hand,  Dr.  Disbrow  then  referred  for  a  tran 
script  of  this  historic  deliverance. 

"When  he  reached  these  words,"  the  narrator 
said,  "he  seemed  to  be  lost  in  the  drift  of  his  own 
eloquence  :  '  Those  persons  in  this  city  who  mean  to 
oppose  the  execution  of  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law  arc 
traitors,  traitors,  traitors !  This  law  ought  to  be 
obeyed,  and  it  will  be  enforced— yes,  it  shall  be  en 
forced,  and  that,  too,  in  the  midst  of  the  next  anti- 
slavery  convention,  if  then  there  shall  be  any  occasion 
to  enforce  it  !  '  That  is  what  he  said,  sir." 

"  It  was  prophecy,  perhaps,"  Mr.  Gerritt  said  with 
deep  feeling. 

"  It  was  drunkenness,  Mr.  Gerritt  !  "  rejoined  Win, 
in  a  tone  as  hard  as  the  grating  of  iron  against 
iron. 

"  Drunkenness  !  "  repeated  the  others  in  the  room 

in  one  breath. 

"  Drunkenness  !  "  reiterated  Dr.  Disbrow  with  all 
the  deliberation  of  a  man  who  knew  he  was  being 
held  responsible  for  serious  words.  "  The  man  was 
drunk,  but  he  was  majestic  in  his  cups,  and  the 


48  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

thunder  of  his  warning  struck  the  people  dumb — 
struck  them  dumb,  as  drunk  as  he  was." 

To  make  good  this  charge  Dr.  Disbrow  described 
how,  even  in  the  very  heat  of  his  passion,  the  great 
debater  had  plied  himself  with  liquor  from  a  pitcher 
placed  near  at  hand,  and  which  was  several  times 
replenished  by  his  admiring  supporters  who  packed 
the  room  behind  him. 

"  Oh,  the  shame  of  it  all !  "  was  Mr.  Gerritt's  final 
remark.  "  But  it  may  be  prophecy.  God  alone 
can  tell." 

Was  it  prophecy  ? 


CHAPTER  V. 

WITH  respect  to  the  return  to  his  native  village 
of  Win  Disbrow,  yclept  the  doctor,  it  may  be  re 
corded  that  it  did  not  pass  unnoticed.  In  the 
somewhat  ceremonious  preparations  which  accom 
panied  his  assumption  of  Dr.  Sampson's  practice,  a 
responsibility,  it  was  everywhere  recognized,  of  no 
mean  importance,  the  young  physician  was  sus 
tained  and  encouraged  by  his  father,  who  was  ap 
parently  manifesting  more  concern  in  the  matter 
than  he  ever  bestowed  upon  anything  else  in  all  his 
life. 

This  sorely  puzzled  some  folks  in  Smithboro. 

"  I  thought  as  how  Lyme  'ould  be  givin'  the  boy 
the  go-by,"  said  the  postmaster  of  Smithboro, 
Zachariah  Adkins,  whose  wish  was  father  to  the 
thought.  "  Seein's  how  the  young  'un's  gone  and 
got  mixed  up  with  the  Abolish  fellers,  and  Lyme 
don't  hanker  fur  the  same  kind  o'  fodder,  I  thought 
they'd  have  a  reg'lar  fuss  afore  long." 

Smithboro,    it    would  seem,  was    rather   slow  to 


50  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

learn  that  if  Lyman  Disbrow  had  a  distinguishing 
trait  of  character  it  was  an  ability  to  mind  his  own 
business. 

But  at  just  this  juncture  of  his  career  Lyme  was 
in  danger  of  breaking  down  that  well-earned  if  not 
universally  acknowledged  reputation.  Out  of  all 
question  Lyme  himself  did  not  see  whither  he  was 
drifting.  Yet  he  was  bent  heart  and  soul  on  marry 
ing  and  settling  his  son  out  of  hand.  Bess  Malcolm 
came  up  fully  to  what  his  ideal  of  a  wife  should  be, 
and  he  felt  a  twinge  of  disappointment  when,  after 
there  had  been  a  meeting  between  the  young  peo 
ple  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  Win  had  not  ardently 
proclaimed  the  sudden  discovery  of  his  affinity. 
Having  been  given  a  cue  to  speak  on  such  a  tender 
and  sentimental  subject  by  his  father,  Win  frankly 
said  he  believed  his  first  duty  was  to  make  his  way 
in  the  world.  Being  sure  of  that,  he  said,  he 
would  take  time  to  look  around  for  a  wife. 

"  But  she  won't  hang  on  the  honey  of  any  such 
words  as  that.  Bess  won't,"  Lyme  contended,  waxing 
as  warm  as  a  young  lover.  "  Snatch  me  bald-head 
ed,  Win  Disbrow,  if  you  don't  siddle  up  to  her,  an1 
do  it  darn  quick,  I'll  slick  up  myself  an'  bring  her 
into  the  family  as  a  step-mother  for  you." 

He  was  pointing  a  finger  of  warning  at  the  red- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  51 

white-and-blue  pole  which  poked  a  gilt  ball  into 
that  part  of  the  street  where  Lem  Haskins,  the 
village  barber,  held  sway.  It  was  a  tradition  in 
Smithboro — not  a  very  ancient  tradition,  for  Smith- 
boro  had  been  in  the  habit  of  "  shaving  itself " 
prior  to  Lem  Haskins's  arrival  a  year  before — that 
when  an  eligible  villager  put  himself  in  the  barber's 
hands  it  was  a  sure  sign  of  a  coming  wedding.  The 
scent  of  Lem  Haskins's  bergamot  was  like  the  call 
ing  of  the  banns. 

At  so  unusual  an  ebullition  as  that,  therefore, 
Win  laughed  so  heartily  that  his  father  came  as  near 
as  he  ever  did  to  losing  his  temper. 

"You  haven't  been  givin'  the  old  man  the  slip, 
have  you  Win  ?  "  Lyme  asked.  "  You  haven't  got 
some  other  gal  down  in  Albany  ?" 

"  Not  any,"  was  Win's  curt  reply  and  it  was  frank 
enough  to  satisfy  parental  suspicion.  "There's  no 
secrets  between  us,  father,  not  one — not  even  that 
I've  had  a  hand  in  the  U.  G.  R.  R.  I  was  afraid 
that  perhaps  you  wouldn't  like  that,  but  I  was 
drawn  into  it,  and  I  hold  it— my  principles,  I 
mean — as  of  next  importance  to  my  profession." 

"  Doggone  it,  no  !  Win  ;  that  don't  count  for  a 
red  cent.  Principles  are  principles,  and  purty  gals 
are  purty  gals.  Say,  though,  don't  let  all  the  good 


52  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

things  get  on  your  blind  side  like  a  watch-eyed  hoss. 
One  eye  for  the  niggers,  if  you  must,  an'  t'other  for 
Win  Disbrow." 

"  Oh !  as  to  that,"  the  young  man  said,  slapping 
the  back  of  the  picture-taker,  "  as  to  that,  I  know  a 
pretty  girl  when  she  isn't  a  mile  off." 

"  And  there  comes  one,  an'  the  purtiest  one  I 
ever  laid  my  two  eyes  on,  an'  I'm  ajedge,"  was 
Lyme's  ejaculation  at  this  instant. 

Father  and  son  were  standing  in  front  of  the  little 
white  house,  scarcely  larger  than  the  picture-wagon, 
where  Dr.  Disbrow's  name  and  title  were  displayed, 
as  Bess  Malcolm  came  along,  her  cheeks  radiant 
with  color,  her  eyes  in  a  merry  dance,  her  step  a 
tripping  measure.  She  swung  her  sunbonnet,  from 
which  flowed  a  streamer  or  two  of  blue  ribbon,  in  her 
hand — a  small,  white  hand  that  was  incomparable  in 
Smithboro.  In  a  tilting  skirt  she  advanced  with  a 
wavy,  billowy  motion  that  seemed  to  set  her  slip 
pered  feet  atwinkle. 

"  There  !  "  Lyme  cried  out.  If  he  had  exhausted 
every  term  of  endearment  in  poesy  he  could  not 
have  added  anything  to  that  one  word. 

"  It's  true  !  it's  true  !  She  wears  the  biggest  crin 
oline  in  Smithboro,"  Win  whispered,  for  Bess  was 
drawing  nigh. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  53 

"  That's  what  they  say  at  the  sewin'  circle,"  Lyme 
replied  in  a  louder  voice.  "  Let  the  tabbies  say  it 
till  kingdom  come;  but  ain't  she  jest  as  purty  as  a 
red  wagon  ?  " 

Bess  was  so  close  at  hand  now  that  had  Win  an 
swered  Bess  must  have  heard  the  reply,  if  indeed 
she  had  not  already  caught  the  drift  of  the  inquiry. 
Instead  of  bringing  about  the  contretemps,  Win 
cordially  greeted  the  girl  and  as  maliciously  as  you 
please,  falling  in  step  with  her,  bore  her  off  down 
the  street.  This  he  did  with  such  happy  aplomb 
that  when  she  would  have  halted  to  address  Lyme, 
as  it  was  evidently  in  her  mind  to  do,  she  was 
swept  onward  by  the  gentle  pressure  at  her  elbow. 
It  was  one  of  those  things  a  strong  man  can  do  with 
a  woman  simply  by  virtue  of  his  strength,  but  with 
out  the  faintest  exertion  of  it. 

"  That  was  very  rude  of  us  both,"  Bess  said  al 
most  pouting. 

"  O,  dad  won't  mind  it  a  bit,"  Win  made  reply. 
"  Anyway  he  is  getting  very  tiresome." 

"  Tiresome  ?  ''  exclaimed  the  girl,  a  look  of  sur 
prise  coming  into  her  face,  as  she  weighed  the 
unfilial  remark. 

"  Yes,  tiresome  ;  you  see  when  we're  together  he 
talks  about  nothing  but  you." 


54  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  Oh  !  and  is  that  so  unbearable  ?  I  think  I'll  say 
good  morning,  Mr.  Disbro\v."  This  rather  coyly. 

"Well  I  could  stand  that,  if  he'd  only  give  me  a 
chance  to  form  my  own  opinions." 

"  Doesn't  he? "-said  Bess  with  an  inflection  that 
signified  doubt.  "  Doesn't  he  ?  I  thought  he 
did.  You  are  an  Abolitionist,  and  he — well,  he's 
not  exactly  one,  though  we  may  save  him  if  we 
try." 

"  That's  not  a  true  test  of  my  father's  confidence," 
Win  answered.  "  He's  going  to  let  me  do  as  I  please 
about  slavery,  but  he  insists  on  guiding  my  untu 
tored  mind  upon  the  question  of  female  loveliness." 

"  And  quite  properly,  too.  You  certainly  don't 
deny  that  such  is  every  father's  prerogative  ?  " 

There  was  a  touch  of  irony  in  this  suggestion  that 
even  Dr.  Disbrow's  nonchalance  staggered  under. 

"  He  wants  me  to  share  his  opinion  of  you,"  Win 
said  in  a  mock  serious  way  that  he  imagined  would 
counter  her  blow. 

"  Quite  right  again,"  was  the  girl's  prompt  answer; 
"  for  Uncle  Lyme  is  not  averse  to  me,  and  as  a  duti 
ful  son  you  should  be  of  the  same  mind — no  matter 
how  hard  it  comes." 

"  Then  you  want  me  to  like  you  as  much  as  he 
does  ?  " 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  55 

"  Surely.  Doesn't  the  Bible  say  obey  your  par- 
cuts — or  words  to  that  effect?  ' 

"  Then,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  shall  be  dutiful  ;  but 
mind  you  this  may  not  be  a  labour  to  delight  in,  and 
if  the  old  proverb  about  physicking  pain  is  true,  I'll 
have  to  take  my  own  medicine." 

"  Horrible  alternative,"  Bess  answered  with 
gravity.  "  Rather  than  that,  I'll  absolve  you.  Don't 
obey  your  parent.  Go  and  be  as  bad  as  you  can." 

It  was  in  a  rapid  exchange  of  this  sort  of 
persiflage  that  the  young  people  walked  out  of 
sight  of  Lyme,  who  thereupon  returned  to  what  he 
sometimes  called  the  "  Realms  of  Art,"  in  his 
wagon  in  Disbrow's  Corner,  satisfied  that  his  off 
spring  was  not  wholly  incorrigible.  But  he 
resolved  to  keep  an  eye  on  them.  That  his  mind 
was  in  a  state  of  perfect  equilibrium  was  testified 
to  by  the  fact  that  he  was  whistling  the  old  tune. 

As  he  passed  Lem  Haskins's  shop,  he  encircled 
the  red-white-and-blue  pole  with  his  right  arm,  and, 
sticking  his  head  in  at  the  door,  astonished  the 
proprietor  with  the  remark  : 

"  Guess  you've  lost  a  fust-class  job,  Lem.  I'll 
shave  myself  yit  awhile." 

When  Lem  came  to  the  door,  the  picture-taker  was 
beyond  call  down  the  street,  whistling;  like  a  lark. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THINGS  being  so  far  so  good,  in  the  parental 
perspective  of  Lyme  Disbrow,  he  declared  himself 
off  for  green  fields  and  pastures  new.  It  was  time 
for  him  to  pull  up  stakes  and  get  under  way  for 
one  of  his  periodical  trips  across  the  country,  a 
decision  he  had  announced  to  Win  that  day,  and 
which  he  found  occasion  to  repeat  that  night  when 
he  paid  a  farewell  visit  to  his  brother's  house. 
Bess  had  assuredly  made  things  very  comfortable 
for  him  there.  Some  of  Mrs.  Disbrow's  frowns  had 
softened  into  smiles. 

"  Win's  set  up  in  his  kill-an'-cure  shop  down  the 
street,  an'  I  hear  the  angels  callin'  me ;  so,  rain  or 
shine,  I'm  off  tomorrow  mornin'  for  Perryville, 
Rippleton  and  Canasango  and  a  few  other  places 
you'll  find  on  the  map  if  you  take  a  spy-glass." 

"You  travel  about  so  much,  Uncle  Lyme,"  Bess 
said,  "  that  if  we  could  only  transform  you  into  an 
out-and-out  Abolitionist  you  could  be  a  great  help 
to  the  cause." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  57 

"  If  Lyman  doesn't  do  us  any  harm,  dear,  that  is 
something,"  put  in  the  preacher.  "  And  I  am 
inclined  to  believe  that  there  is  no  man  in  all  the 
country  who  would  be  quicker  to  stretch  forth  a 
helping  hand  were  he  to  find  one  of  his  fellow- 
beings,  black  or  white,  in  distress." 

"  What  would  you  do,  uncle,"  Bess  inquired 
with  some  earnestness,  "  if  you  had  a  good  chance 
to  help  a  runaway — some  dark  night  out  in  the 
country  ?  " 

"  If  you  told  me  to,  I  guess  I'd  have  to  give  the 
nigger  a  lift,"  was  Lyme's  cheerful  answer.  "Any 
way  all  cats  are  black  in  the  night." 

"  And  suppose,"  put  in  Mrs.  Disbrow,  as  if  to 
apply  the  telling  test,  "  that  you  should  be  asked 
by  a  slave-hunter  to  tell  him  what  you  knew, — if 
you  had  seen  a  party  of  fugitives  on  their  way,  as 
you  often  have?  " 

"Oh,  I  guess  I'd  be  like  that  old  lady  over  in 
Spraker's  Square.  She  was  so  sick  they  couldn't 
do  nuthin'  for  her.  She  was  jest  down  sick.  One 
of  her  friends,  a  member  of  the  same  congregation, 
was  tellin'  'bout  it,  an'  she  told  me  that,  when  the 
old  lady  was  'bout  breathin'  her  last,  she  looked 
beautiful,  her  eyes  a-lookin'  up  to  Heaven,  an' 
her  hands  folded,  but,  says  her  friend,  she  was 


58  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

disinclined  for  conversation.  I  shouldn't  be  sur 
prised,  Mary,  if  I'd  be  sufferin'  from  the  same 
disease." 

"  There  !  "  exclaimed  Bess,  and  the  exclamation 
was  as  triumphant  as  that  other  "  There  !  "  which 
Lyme  had  uttered  earlier  in  the  day.  It  signified 
something  between  the  sisters,  too,  that  was  left  to 
the  imagination. 

As  Mr.  Disbrow  had  been  summor  ~d  that  evening 
to  a  little  meeting  of  the  faithful  held  at  the 
Gerritt  mansion,  Lyme  made  his  farewells  to  the 
family,  and  took  his  departure  with  the  preacher. 
At  the  doctor's  office  they  found  Win  compound 
ing  a  vicious-looking  mixture  for  a  waiting  patient. 
With  a  promise  to  sit  for  an  hour  with  his  father 
at  his  room  in  the  tavern,  Win  made  his  way  with 
Mr,  Disbrow  to  Mr.  Gerritt's  door.  It  appeared 
that  notice  had  been  forwarded  to  Smithboro  that 
day  of  the  coming  of  a  party  of  fugitives  from 
Tennessee,  whose  safety  was  in  extreme  doubt,  as 
they  were  under  close  pursuit.  A  message  to 
Mr.  Gerritt  by  "  grapevine  telegraph  "  was  to  the 
effect  that  the  party  had  been  able  to  elude  capture 
up  to  the  last  station  by  dividing.  One  man  and 
four  women  were  under  cover,  to  remain  there  for 
a  week  or  two,  while  two  men  of  superior  intelli- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  59 

gence  hurried  on,  one  to  give  the  alarm  to  the 
nearest  station,  and  the  other,  a  daring  fellow,  to 
lead  the  pursuing  party  astray  by  boldly  showing 
himself  at  places  off  the  beaten  track. 

It  was  Mr.  Gerritt's  information  that  this  device 
had  proved  successful,  and  that  he  might  expect  a 
visit  from  the  scout  in  Smithboro  within  a  day, 
possibly  earlier. 

The  message  commended  the  man  to  the  kindness 
and  assistance  of  friends  of  the  cause. 

"  As  the  officers  of  the  law,  and  the  others,  who 
ever  they  are  who  follow,  are  on  the  man's  track," 
Mr.  Gerritt  said,  when  the  friends  were  gathered 
under  his  roof,  "  we  must  act  quickly.  We  ought 
to  be  ready  with  a  plan  to  conceal,  or  hurry  forward, 
the  party,  when  the  man  comes.  If  he  can  carry 
the  blood-hounds  beyond  here,  we  will  bring  the 
others  on,  and  hide  them  in  this  house  until  such 
time  as  they  can  be  passed  with  reasonable  safety  to 
Mexico  Point." 

"  I  feel  impelled  to  say,"  said  Mr.  Disbrow,  "  that 
we  should  choose  some  other  refuge  than  Mr.  Ger 
ritt's  house.  Unless  this  brave  fellow  who  is  trying 
to  put  his  pursuers  on  a  false  scent  succeeds  in 
rushing  the  pursuers  through  Smithboro,  it  is  this 
house,  first  of  all,  that  will  be  watched.  It  has  be- 


60  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

come  too  well  known  that  Mr.  Gerritt  never  turns  a 
black  man  from  his  door.  Let  the  rest  of  us  take 
some  of  the  risk,  no  less  as  a  matter  of  right  among 
friends,  but  as  well  for  the  safety  of  the  slaves.  I 
shall  take  care  of  two  of  the  women  if  they  come, 
and  I'm  only  sorry  my  little  home  is  not  more  com" 
modious  that  it  might  embrace  all  the  party." 

Mr.  Gerritt  was  disposed  to  insist  on  assuming  the 
entire  responsibility  for  the  care  of  the  expected 
party,  until  Win,  speaking  as  a  messenger  from  the 
outer  world,  declared  that  if  the  work  in  hand  was 
to  be  successful,  Mr.  Gerritt's  house,  as  a  place  of 
refuge,  must  be  relieved  of  constant  suspicion.  In 
all  the  land,  Win  said,  there  was  no  roof  that  was 
so  well  known  as  a  cover  for  the  flying  slave.  If, 
as  he  thought,  the  one  object  was  to  outwit  pursuit 
of  the  fugitives  who  came  by  the  way  of  Smithboro, 
then  the  eye  of  the  detested  law  should  be  drawn 
elsewhere  than  upon  Mr.  Gerritt's  house. 

"  What  is  our  aim  will  be  better  executed,"  he 
said,  "  if  we  avoid  a  clash  with  the  law.  We  can 
outwit  it  if  we  put  our  heads  together.  Martyrdom 
may  be  a  crown,  but  for  my  part  I  have  no  kingly 
ambitions,  and  am  firmly  of  the  opinion  that,  at  best, 
there  are  too  few  of  us  to  justify  anyone  in  deliber* 
ately  thrusting  his  neck  into  the  halter." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  61 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  gospel  true,  Dr.  Disbrow,"  said 
Simeon  Benson  with  marked  vehemence,  drawing 
his  chair  closer  to  the  young  doctor.  "  We  mustn't 
go  too  fur,  not  too  fur  ;  that's  what  I  say." 

"  Dr.  Disbrow  did  not  put  it  in  quite  that  way 
Mr.  Benson,"  the  preacher  suggested.  "  I  don't 
understand  that  he  is  counselling  anything  but  the 
wisest  caution,  and,  to  that  end,  thinks  we  ourselves 
ought  to  assume  more  of  the  responsibility  that  we 
have  been  inviting." 

"'Exactly,"  replied  Benson,  "  but  I  thought  Dr. 
Disbrow  was  thinkin'  'bout  that  man  Dillingham, 
deown  in  Tennessee,  and  didn't  want  to  git  any 
of  us  in  his  boots.  We  must  be  careful ;  that's 
what  I  say." 

"  Richard  Dillingham  died  in  jail  where  the  foes 
of  freedom  put  him,"  Mr.  Gerritt  said  with  great 
feeling,  "  but  no  dread  of  his  fate  deters  us,  I  am 
sure." 

Saying  this  Mr.  Gerritt  stood  up,  and,  as  if  it  had 
been  an  understood  signal,  every  man  in  the  room 
came  to  his  feet.  No  word  was  spoken,  but  it  was 
a  silent  pledge  of  fidelity.  Even  Sime  Benson  gave 
it,  albeit  with  a  wry  face. 

"  When  this  party  of  fugitives  come — if  they  do 
come — who  else  will  give  them  asylum  ?  Mr.  Dis- 


62  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

brow  takes  two  of  the  women  ?  I  shall  take  two 
other  women."  This  was  the  offer  of  the  Rev. 
Theodore  Thorn,  the  Presbyterian  clergyman. 
"  One  male  slave,  as  I  think  you  said,  Mr.  Gerritt, 
remains  unprovided  for.  What  do  you  say,  Mr. 
Benson  ?  " 

The  Abolitionist  ranter  was  taken  with  a  sudden  fit 
of  the  fidgets.  He  hemmed  and  hawed  for  a  space  of 
several  seconds  and  finally  declined  to  open  his  doors. 

"  I'd  do  it  in  a  minute,  you  all  know  me,  but  you 
see  I'm  expectin'  to  go  over  to  Canastota  to-morrer 
to  meet  my  wife's  sister,  who's  comin'  from  Uticky, 
and  I  wouldn't  be  here  to  look  after  our  poor 
brother.  I  wouldn't  dare  resk  it,  nohow. 

There  was  just  a  moment's  pause  after  this  flutter 
of  the  white  feather  in  this  little  band  of  patriot 
spirits.  It  was  a  calm  summer's  night.  In  its  deep 
stillness,  unbroken  even  by  the  rustle  of  the  elms, 
there  now  sounded  a  low  note  of  plaintive  import. 
It  was  like  the  call  of  a  night  bird  for  its  mate,  but 
there  was  no  ear  to  which  it  came  that  did  not  know 
it  to  be  of  human  origin.  The  friends  of  the  hunted 
slave  were  listening  to  the  whistle  of  the  Under 
ground  Railroad.  It  had  come  from  the  shrubbery 
underneath  the  windows  of  the  room  in  which  the 
council  was  in  progress. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  63 

"  Kindly  keep  seated,  gentlemen,"  Mr.  Gerritt 
said  in  an  undertone,  as  he  rose  from  his  chair. 

Before  the  master  of  the  house  had  time  to  cross 
the  floor  to  the  arched  doorway  of  the  spacious  hall, 
a  buxom  woman,  not  young,  not  old,  unmistakably 
of  the  land  that  gave  Robert  Emmett  to  the  cause 
of  Liberty,  was  at  hand,  her  face  full  of  inquiry. 

"  Margaret,  the  new  signal,"  Mr.  Gerritt  said,  giv 
ing  instructions,  "  and  if  the  answer  is  five  raps — 
one,  three  in  quick  succession,  and  then  one — let  in 
whoever  is  there — into  the  back  hall.  I'll  wait  for 
you  there." 

Without  a  word,  the  girl  was  gone,  and  with  his 
finger  on  his  lips  as  he  left  the  room,  Mr.  Gerritt 
disappeared. 

At  first  there  was  no  sound  within  or  without. 
Then,  as  if  the  signal  were  immediately  under  their 
feet,  the  listening  men  heard  two  raps  upon  a  pane 
of  "lass,  and  an  instantaneous  answer  from  the  out- 

o  * 

side — one,  one-two-three,  one — a  signal  so  low 
that  on  another  night  it  might  have  been  inaudible. 
Bolts  were  drawn  in  the  fastenings  of  the  door,  and 
then  replaced.  The  noise  of  this  came  to  the  ear  in 
a  muffled  way.  There  were  footfalls  on  the  stairs 
and  the  sound  of  voices  in  a  whisper.  Sime  Benson 
was  still  as  fidgetty  as  a  child  in  a  church  pew. 


64  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

With  a  red  handkerchief  he  wiped  his  streaming 
forehead.  The  others  were  like  a  group  of  statues. 

Mr.  Gerritt  stepped  into  the  room,  and  at  his 
heels,  a  picture  of  fair  womanhood  in  blushes  and 
alpaca,  came  Bess  Malcolm.  Behind  them  stood 
the  Irish  maid  with  her  stout  arm  at  the  back  of  a 
stalwart  negro  whose  inclination  seemed  to  be  to 
hang  back.  Yielding  to  this  pressure  he  advanced 
to  the  centre  of  the  room,  by  which  time  the  com 
pany  were  on  their  feet  in  token  of  their  astonish 
ment  at  seeing  the  runaway  under  the  escort  of  the 
radiant  girl.  It  cannot  be  denied  that  Bess  was 
apparently  enjoying  the  prevalent  state  of  surprise. 

"This  is  the  scout  we  expected,  gentlemen,"  Mr. 
Gerritt  said,  and  with  a  cavalier's  bow  to  Bess, 
"  and  here  is  another." 

Dr.  Disbrow  evidently  was  more  stunned  by  the 
apparition  than  the  others,  and  Bess,  not  slow  to 
recognize  his  discomfiture,  went  over  to  him  with 
outstretched  hand. 

"  If  Miss  Malcolm  will  tell  the  gentlemen  how  all 
this  came  about  I  am  sure  that  they  will  listen," 
Mr.  Gerritt  interposed,  just  in  time  to  shut  off  the 
flood  of  inquiries  leaping  to  Win's  lips. 

"There  isn't  much  to  tell,"  Bess  made  answer. 
"  I'll  try  to  cut  it  very  short,  for  this  man  has  a 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  65 

story  more  interesting.  A  half  hour  ago  Uncle 
Lyme,  who  was  roaming  around  like  a  lost  spirit, 
found  this  man  hiding  under  his  wagon — and — and 
— well,  he  was  looking  for  friends,  and  Uncle  Lyme 
brought  him  to  our  house — brought  him  to  me." 

"  Fse  done  been  sent  to  Peter  Gerritt,"  the  negro 
interrupted. 

"  Yes,  that's  what  Uncle  Lyme  told  me,"  Bess 
continued,  "but  he  didn't  want  to  take  him  to  Mr. 
Gerritt.  He  says  you  suspect  him  of  being  leagued 
with  the  others  ;  so  he  brought  him  to  our  house." 

Mr.  Gerritt  smiled  in  deprecation  of  being 
thought  so  uncharitable,  but  said  nothing. 

"And  you  brought  him  here?"  asked  Win. 
"  You  weren't  afraid  ?  " 

"  Her  act  is  the  best  proof  of  her  courage,  doctor," 
Mr.  Gerritt  said.  "And  not  every  young  woman 
who  believes  as  she  does  would  be  as  brave." 

"  I'se  done  been  sent  to  Peter  Gerritt,"  the  negro 
repeated,  as  he  looked  furtively  from  face  to  face, 
the  formality  of  enlightening  him  as  to  the  identity 
of  his  host  evidently  having  been  overlooked  in  the 
haste  and  strangeness  of  his  reception. 

"  I  am  Peter  Gerritt,"  the  great  Abolitionist  said, 
"and  these  are  your  friends  and  mine.  What  is 
your  name,  my  good  man?" 


66  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  Dick  Richards,  massa." 

"  There  are  no  masters  here,  Dick,"  was  Mr.  Ger- 
ritt's  admonitory  rejoinder. 

He  was  not  a  full-blooded  specimen  of  his  race. 
In  his  eyes,  his  features,  his  physique,  there  showed 
the  indelible  marks  of  that  deepest  shame  of  slavery, 
the  sin  that  stamps  its  own  as  with  the  brand  of 
Cain,  and  makes  of  heredity  an  odious  boast. 
There  was  a  bronze-like  beauty  about  the  man  that 
was  repellent  because  of  the  hideous  truth  it  told. 
In  certain  lights  Richards  was  not  so  dark  of  com 
plexion  that  he  would  not  pass  for  a  white  man,  and 
he  had  been  fitted  out  with  clothing  to  aid  him  in 
such  a  deception,  if  it  would  better  serve  his  end. 
Indeed  in  his  capacity  as  a  scout,  so  he  told  the 
listening  company,  he  carried  two  outfits  ;  in  one  of 
which  he  stood,  the  other,  a  bundle  of  rags  and 
tatters,  he  had  concealed  some  distance  from  the 
village  while  he  came  to  keep  his  appointment  with 
Mr.  Gerritt.  To  the  rags  and  tatters  he  resorted, 
he  said,  when,  as  he  had  been  doing,  he  was  mis 
leading  his  pursuers  by  sudden  appearances  and 
exits  from  places  where  it  was  obvious  inquiry  for 
the  runaways  would  be  made.  It  was  a  dashing 
exploit  to  be  engaged  in  and,  though  he  knew  its 
perils,  he  was  keyed  up  to  the  accomplishment. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  67 

The    man  and   the  enterprise   seemed    to  go   to 
gether. 

In  the  course  of  the  negro's  revelations  it  came 
out  that  he  had  been  brought  at  last  to  desperate 
straits  by  the  success  of  his  ruse.  The  pursuing 
force,  consisting  of  a  Southern  attorney,  a  United 
States  marshal  and  a  hired  assistant,  had  come  up 
with  him. 

"  Dey's  so  close,  Massa  Gerritt,  I  reckon  dey'll 
smell  dis  hyer  nigger  out  'fore  sun-up,"  Dick  said. 

"  You're  safe  under  this  roof,  Dick,"the  Abolition 
ist  leader  replied.  "  The  bloodhounds  have  no  au 
thority,  even  under  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law,  to 
cross  this  threshold." 

"  But  I'se  got  to  git  back  to  my  people," 
Richards  put  in,  almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 
"  I'se  got  to  lead  dem  to  de  Promise'  Land,  suah. 
I'se  jess  goin'  to  do  it,  Massa  Gerritt,  somehow." 

"Of  course  you  are,"  exclaimed  Bess,  her  cheeks 
flaming  with  the  excitement  of  the  affair.  "  Of 
course  you  are,  and  we're  going  to  help  you. 
Aren't  we,  Doctor,  and  Mr.  Gerritt — and — all  of  us." 

"  Every  attempt  shall  be  made  to  do  so,"  was  the 
reassuring  remark  of  Mr.  Disbrow. 

In  a  hurried  discussion  of  ways  and  means  which 
thereupon  ensued,  it  came  out  that  for  the  present 


68  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

the  rest  of  the  fleeing  party  were  deemed  to  be  safe 
at  a  station  thirty  miles  south  of  Smithboro ;  but  it 
was  conceded  that  were  Richards  to  be  taken  or 
were  his  whereabouts  to  be  detected,  the  pursuers 
would  learn  of  the  fool's  errand  on  which  he  had 
led  them  and  would  quickly  retrace  their  steps,  with 
the  imminent  possibility  of  capturing  the  whole 
party.  Obviously  no  effort  should  be  spared  to 
again  increase  the  distance  between  Richards  and 
those  in  pursuit. 

Sime  Benson  was  for  sending  Richards  back  with 
out  a  moment's  delay,  and  in  a  grandiloquent  burst 
of  enthusiasm,  he  took  out  a  heavy  wallet  wound 
with  strings  and  announced  that  he  would  gladly 
give  five  dollars  towards  seeing  the  runaway  well 
provided  for.  When  Mr.  Disbrow  impetuously  re 
marked  that  this  was  an  emergency  when  cunning, 
not  coin,  was  wanted,  Sime  took  umbrage  at  the 
words,  and  made  it  a  good  excuse  for  leaving  the 
council. 

As  a  result  of  the  discussion,  it  was  decided  that 
Richards  should  not  stir  from  Mr.  Gerritt's  house 
that  night,  and  that  after  the  village  had  been  thor 
oughly  reconnoitered  the  next  day,  such  action  as 
the  circumstances  justified  should  be  taken.  If  the 
pursuers  were  as  close  as  the  negro  thought  they 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  69 

were,  he  would  have  to  wait  in  hiding  for  their  de 
parture  from  Smithboro  or  depend  on  a  strategic 
move  to  make  good  his  escape. 

Having  determined  on  this  plan  the  little  council 
broke  up. 

"  You're  a  little  heroine,  Miss  Bess  Malcolm," 
said  Dr.  Disbrow,  taking  the  girl  on  his  arm  down 
the  broad  steps  of  the  mansion,  while  his  uncle 
held  back  a  moment  for  a  final  word  with  Mr. 
Gerritt. 

"Do  heroines  keep  awake  all  night?"    Bess  in 
quired  naively.     "  I  know  I  shan't  sleep  a  wink  to 
night  thinking  of  that  wretched  man." 
"  Let  me  give  you  a  sleeping  potion." 
"  None  of  your  nasty  medicine,  thank  you." 
"  All  right,  throw  physic  to  the  dogs.     Will  you 
sleep  if  I  tell  you  we  shall  have    Richards    out  of 
Smithboro  to-night?"  the  young  doctor  asked. 
"Yes." 

"  Then  I  promise." 

Bess  in  a  glow  of  new  excitement  would  have 
had  Win  unfold  what  his  plans  were  for  thus 
assuring  the  safety  of  the  slave,  but  on  the  plea 
that  he  was  making  a  promise  she  should  take  on 
faith,  he  brought  her  to  her  own  door  in  a  state  of 
doubt  hopelessly  divided  between  joy  and  vexation. 


70  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  I  suppose  you  think  a  woman's  not  to  be 
trusted  with  such  a  secret  ?  "  Bess  inquired  between 
pouting  lips. 

"  There's  no  secret  about  it — yet,"  was  Win's  re 
ply.  "  When  there  is,  you  shall  be  its  custodian. 
Does  that  suffice?  For  the  present  I  promise  that 
the  slave  shall  be  out  of  Smithboro  to-morrow." 

"  You  promise  that  ?  " 

"  I  promise." 

"  And  I  say  if  you  keep  it,  I'll  like  you  as  well  as 
I  do  Uncle  Lyme." 

"  And  give  me  all  his  privileges  ?  "  Win  stooped 
as  if  he  would  have  kissed  her  as  he  had  seen  his 
father  do. 

There  was  a  whisk  of  a  dark  petticoat,  a  tanta 
lizing  "  Perhaps  "  singing  in  the  air,  a  flash  of  lamp 
light  through  a  quickly-opened  and  closed  door, 
and  Bess  was  no  more  to  be  seen. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

AT  ten  o'clock  at  night  Smithboro  was  apt  to  be 
snugly  stowed  away  in  bed.  As  Win  Disbrow  at  a 
quickened  pace  turned  his  face  towards  the  tav 
ern  to  spend  an  hour  with  his  father,  his  way 
was  lighted  by  a  blaze  of  stars.  Here  and  there 
the  jet  of  a  tallow  dip,  trickling  a  feeble  ray 
through  a  window  shutter,  told  of  a  laggard,  or 
marked  a  sick  pillow. 

On  the  steps  of  the  Lafayette  Hotel,  with  his 
legs  drawn  up  under  his  chin,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
the  young  doctor  found  the  author  of  his  being  in 
conversation  with  a  stranger. 

"  This  is  my  boy,  Dr.  Disbrow,"  Lyme  said,  by 
way  of  introduction.  "  What  may  I  call  your 
name,  mister ;  I  didn't  jest  catch  it  when  Clem  spoke 
it  a  while  ago." 

"Thornby,"  was  the  stranger's  reply. 

"  Mr.  Thornby,  my  son,  Dr.  Disbrow,"  Lyme 
said.  "  Must  be  purty  sick  over  there,  Win,"  he 
continued,  "you're  so  kinder  late;  if  it  hadn't 


72  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

been  as  I  was  lightin'  out  to-morrer  mornin',  I'd  a 
been  in  my  downy  couch  afore  this,  I  kin  tell  you. 
But  I  wanted  to  see  you  on  suthin'  perticular,  an' 
so  here  I  be.  How  sick  is  he  anyway  ?  " 

A  dingy  tin  reflector  on  the  wall  of  the  tavern 
office  cast  just  enough  light  upon  Lyme's  face  to 
permit  Win  to  scan  it.  Ordinarily  he  would  have 
taken  this  reference  to  an  imaginary  patient  as  a 
bit  of  harmless  chaff,  especially  as  he  had  come 
from  the  direction  of  Bess's  home,  but  there  was  an 
elusive  something  in  the  picture-taker's  sharp  eyes, 
as  the  gaze  of  the  father  and  son  met,  that  Win's 
quick  wit  told  him  not  to  interpret  as  parental 
levity. 

"  It  is  a  desperate  case,  father,"  Win  made  reply, 
having  come  to  the  conclusion  that  they  were  talk 
ing  in  parables.  "  But  I  hope  to  pull  him  through. 
I'm  going  to  my  office  now  to  look  into  the  books 
a  little.  You  see,  Mr.  Thornby,  I'm  just  a  begin 
ner  in  medicine  ;  and  if  you  don't  mind,  father,  you 
might  walk  along  with  me.  We  can  say  our  good 
byes  while  I'm  looking  up  the  authorities." 

Thornby  and  the  tavern  being  at  their  back,  a 
minute  later,  Win  gave  his  father  an  affectionate 
embrace  and  further  certified  to  its  sincerity  with 
the  remark  :  "  Dad,  you're  a  brick." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  ;3 

Lyme's  pipe  had  been  puffed  so  hard  that  its  red 
glow  paled  the  stars.  He  was  in  a  meditative 
mood,  that  was  plain. 

"Nice  mess  this  is,  Win,  for  a  law-abidin'  citizen 
of  the  United  States,"  he  said  at  last.  "Touch 
pitch  an'  you'll  be  defiled,  the  good  book,  or  some- 
buddy  or  t'other  says,  and  here  I  be  with  my  dew- 
claws  on  a  runaway  nigger." 

"  Bess  Malcolm  thinks  you're  nothing  less  mag 
nificent  than  a  saint,"  Win  said,  "  and  I  begin  to 
think  she's  a  girl  who  knows  a  thing  or  two." 

"  I'd  not  a-meddled  with  the  business,  Win,  for 
anyone  but  her.  No,  sir,  not  for  you,  or  Ab  either. 
It's  a  ticklish  business,  too.  That  feller  Thornby 
at  the  tavern's  a  nigger  hunter,  an'  there's  two 
more  on  'em  there,  who'll  make  things  in  Smith- 
boro  hum  like  a  bumble-bee  on  a  honey-suckle  to- 
morrer,  I'm  thinkin'." 

"  They're  here  then  ?  "  Win  exclaimed,  stopping 
dead  in  the  path. 

"  As  big's  a  meetin'house,"  Lyme  replied.  "  Here 
to  stay,  I  guess,  till  they  git  their  finger-nails  into  the 
wool  of  that  nigger  you've  got  over  to  Gerritt's." 

"  You  talked  with  them,  did  you  ?  "  Win  asked. 

"With  nobuddy  but  that  feller  you  jest  left. 
Clem  Jones  is  mighty  scarey  'bout  'em,  an'  told 


74  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

round  they'd  come  here  to  buy  black  walnut  tim 
ber :  but  it's  suthin'  blacker 'n  that  they're  chasin' 
after,  or  they'd  not  come  to  town  with  a  pair  of 
wind-blown  hosses,  'bout  an  hour  after  I'd  took  the 
nigger  to  Bess  !  " 

"  Just  in  time  to  save  him.     You  are  a  brick." 

This  was  what  Win  said  as  he  unlocked  his  office 
door  and  went  in.  It  was  decided  that,  so  far  as 
Dr.  Disbrow's  illusionary  patient  was  concerned,  he 
could  work  better  in  the  dark  than  in  the  light.  So 
the  candles  remained  unlighted.  It  was  plain  the 
tavern  keeper,  evidently  in  the  secret  of  the  stran 
gers'  mission,  had  thought  to  do  something  for  them 
by  recommending  Lyme  as  a  sympathizer,  but  as 
only  Thornby  remained  in  sight,  and  he  kept  his 
own  counsel,  Lyme  had  little  to  add  to  the  infor 
mation  already  in  the  possession  of  the  doctor. 
Thornby  had  indeed  endeavoured  to  lead  Lyine 
into  a  disclosure  of  the  part  Smithboro  was  playing 
in  the  anti-slavery  crusade,  but  as  he  had  preserved 
his  usual  reticence  on  the  subject,  nothing  had  corne 
of  their  talk  on  the  tavern  steps. 

"  Now  you've  got  the  nigger  on  your  hands,  Win, 
you  and  the  rest  on  'em,  what  you  goin'  to  do  with 
him  ?  "  was  Lyme's  next  inquiry. 

"  I'm    going  to  send  him  away  on   the   Under- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  75 

ground  Railroad  to-morrow,  right  under  the  nose  of 
those  bloodhounds,"  Win  confidently  answered. 

"  It's  ticklish  business,  Win,"  the  father  put  in. 

"  I  told  Bess  Malcolm  I'd  do  it,"  the  young  man 
said  in  a  tone  designed  to  touch  the  heart  of  his 
father. 

"You  did,  eh?  An'  I've  a  blamed  good  notion 
to  help  you,  but  I  guess  I've  got  as  badly  mixed  up 
in  the  business  as  I  oughter.  Doggone  it,  no!  I'll 
lay  low." 

"  You're  going  to  help,  dad,  that's  just  what's  go 
ing  to  happen.  You  are  going  to  let  me  put  a 
bundle  of  old  clothes  in  your  wagon  to-night,  and 
then  to-morrow  morning  you  are  going  to  drive 
away  with  it,  and  when  nobody's  looking,  you're 
going  to  dump  it  somewhere  on  the  road,  and  go 
on  about  your  business," 

"  You  mean  the  nicker  ?  " 

oo 

"I  mean  a  bundle  of  old  clothes.  Why  should 
you  ask  your  son  what's  in  the  clothes?  "  Win  said, 
slapping  his  father  on  the  back.  "  Now  I  want  you 
to  give  me  the  key  to  the  wagon  ;  then  I  want  you 
to  go  back  to  the  hotel,  and  keep  your  eyes  peeled. 
If  those  bloodhounds  get  to  barking  inside  an  hour, 
or  half  an  hour,  you  have  business  at  the  wagon, 
and  if  you  whistle  the  old  tune,  I'll  know  what  to 


76  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

do.  If  the  bloodhounds  don't  stir,  go  to  bed  and 
go  to  sleep,  as  I  told  Bess  Malcolm  to  do,  when  I 
promised  that  the  nigger,  as  you  call  him,  would  go 
free  to-night." 

It  was  for  Bess's  sake  that  Lyme  Disbrow  did  it. 
Not  a  living  soul,  not  even  Bess,  or  Mr.  Gerritt,  or 
his  brother,  the  preacher,  was  to  be  enlightened  as 
to  the  use  that  was  to  be  made  of  the  wagon. 
Lyme  made  this  an  express  stipulation,  for,  as  he 
said,  while  he  had  no  real  fear  of  the  consequences, 
he  did  not  want  to  turn  his  picture-wagon  into  a 
cattle-cart.  What  was  more,  he  added,  as  long  as 
he  could  he  wanted  to  be  a  sinner,  if  to  be  holy 
and  righteous  was  to  be  as  "  mean  as  pizen,"  as,  he 
insisted,  were  a  considerable  portion  of  the  Aboli 
tionist  elect.  He  knew,  he  said,  a  lot  of  people  who 
were  howling  through  the  wilderness  for  the  free 
dom  of  the  slaves,  who  piled  work  on  their  hired 
help  until  their  backs  broke,  and  then  sent  them  to 
bed  with  not  enough  in  their  stomachs  to  keep  a 
cat  alive  ! 

"  I  know  a  white  blackbird  when  I  see  it,"  Lyme 
concluded,  "an'  them's  my  sentiments." 

Except  that  in  answer  to  a  low  whistle  outside 
the  windows  of  the  Gerritt  mansion  there  followed 
an  exchange  of  mystic  raps  on  the  curtained  panes, 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  77 

the  flicker  of  the  candle  in  the  lower  hall,  the  disap 
pearance  of  a  shadowy  figure  within,  and,  after  a 
space  of  half  an  hour,  its  reappearance  in  double, 
the  separation  of  the  two  on  the  village  green  as 
they  made  their  spectral  way  from  elm  to  elm  in  the 
blotches  of  black  shade  impenetrable  to  the  flaming 
sky,  and  then  the  click  of  the  lock  in  the  picture- 
wagon  as  its  bolt  was  shot  back  and  forth,  the  chief 
happening  of  that  night  in  Smithboro  had  no 
herald. 

The  next  morning,  bright  and  early,  as  Lyme 
Disbrow's  wagon  rumbled  past  the  tavern  with  the 
picture-taker's  face  at  the  front  window,  Thornby, 
the  slave-taker,  wakeful  as  a  dog,  sprang  from  his 
bed  to  see  for  himself  who  was  astir  at  that  hour. 
On  the  wagon's  side  he  read  the  legend :  "  Secure 
the  shadow  ere  the  substance  fades."  Then  he 
went  back  to  bed  for  his  forty  winks. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

LYME  DISBROW'S  queer  wagon  was  a  familiar 
sight  on  most  roads.  As  he  passed  along,  many  a 
shrill  hulloo  sounded  from  a  newly-ploughed  hillside 
or  was  flung  down  at  him  from  the  peak  of  a 
mounting  hayrick  to  draw  his  attention  from  his 
morning  meditations.  He  was  more  contemplative 
than  usual,  this  morning;  so  thoroughly  engrossed 
was  he  with  his  own  thoughts,  in  fact,  that  without 
these  spurs  to  a  livelier  spirit  he  might  have  moped 
half  way  to  Vidlersville.  He  was,  truth  to  tell, 
neither  sorry  nor  glad  that  he  had  become  the 
humble  instrument  of  what  he  knew  vast  numbers 
of  good  folk  would  have  looked  upon  as  a  noble 
act.  At  the  same  time,  having  taken  the  runaway 
negro  as  a  passenger,  he  was  intent  on  discharging 
his  part  of  the  business  with  precision  and  dispatch. 

Lyme  and  Richards  had  scarcely  spoken  at  the 
start,  and  now  the  negro,  worn  out  with  watching 
through  the  night,  was  asleep  on  the  wagon  floor, 
jolt  as  the  vehicle  would  over  the  rough  road.  All 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  79 

Lyme's  mental  power  was  being  centred  on  select 
ing  a  spot  from  which  the  fugitive,  having  been 
disembarked,  could  with  reasonable  safety  make  a 
journey  southward  to  rejoin  his  party.  The  idea  in 
Lyme's  head  was  to  give  the  negro  as  much  cover 
in  the  woods  as  possible,  and  yet  not  lengthen 
his  journey.  Being,  as  he  claimed,  on  speaking 
terms  with  every  blade  of  grass  in  that  country, 
Lyme  was  planning  a  safe  route  with  a  minute  cal 
culation  of  all  the  chances.  To  have  Dick  retaken 
would  look  like  a  breach  of  faith  on  his  part,  Lyme 
decided,  and  he  was  bound  to  outwit  pursuit. 

They  had  gone  out  of  Smithboro,  Lyme  and  his 
bundle  of  old  clothes,  on  such  a  morning  as  he  was 
wont  to  take  the  keenest  delight  in.  Just  a  balmy 
breath  of  clover-laden  air  blew  fresh  in  his  cheery 
face.  Flights  of  birds,  whose  names  he  knew  and 
whose  songs  he  loved,  swept  across  the  landscape  : 
here  where  it  was  made  to  teem  by  the  patient 
tiller  of  the  soil,  and  there,  where  it  was  left  still 
glorious  in  a  state  of  primeval  loveliness — expansive 
stretches  of  upland  timber  virgin  to  the  woodman's 
axe.  Over  against  the  distant  hilltops  rose  banks 
of  milk-white  clouds,  massed  as  low  as  the  horizon 
and  as  high  as  the  zenith,  as  if  just  beyond  that 
jagged  borderland  of  pinnacles  and  pines  another 


8o  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

world  was  drawing  on  a  mammoth  pipe  and  tossing 
great  puffs  of  smoke  into  mid-air. 

Within  range  of  his  own  vision,  Lyme  saw  a  little 
world  going  to  its  daily  tasks.  At  the  right  hand  a 
half  dozen  cows,  trailed  by  a  barking  dog  at  which 
a  boy  shouted  "  Stu'boy,  stu'boy,"  meandered  over 
a  lea  still  silvered  with  the  dew  of  morning.  "  Co' 
boss,  co'  boss,"  sang  another  lad  in  a  key  as  sweet 
as  an  Arcadian  tabour,  down  a  sloping  bank  of 
spongy  meadowland  cut  into  irregular  squares  by 
the  zig-zags  of  the  rail  fence.  The  dip  of  a  well- 
sweep,  squeaking  on  its  bearings,  was  another  sign 
of  life  ;  the  grating  of  a  stone-boat  going  down  a 
cow-path  another,  and  as  all  things  are  quick  or 
dead  by  comparison  life  was  at  its  ^busiest  here  at 
this  hour. 

"  This  country's  too  good  for  niggers,  "  Lyme  said 
aloud,  taking  his  lungs  full  of  soft  air,  and  turning 
in  his  place  to  see  how  his  charge  was  faring. 

"  I  reckon,  sah,  I'se  been  a  heap  o'  trubble  to 
you,"  Dick  said  in  a  whisper,  as  he  sat  up  and 
rubbed  his  eyes  until  they  seemed  bigger  and 
whiter  than  ever. 

"No  trouble  so  far,"  Lyme  remarked,  "an'  I 
don't  want  you  to  be,  come  Sunday  an'  the  day 
after  that.  But  dang  your  black  hide  why  don't 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  8r 

you  stay  where  you  b'long— you  niggers ;  what 
with  the  seven-year  locusts  an'  the  sheep-pest  we 
could  get  'long  without  niggers." 

Richards  was  on  his  feet  with  the  quickness  of  a 
cat.  The  picture-taker's  words  had  a  hostile  sound. 

"Whar  you  takin*  me?"  he  cried,  as  he  seemed 
to  crouch  for  a  spring.  "  Dey  done  tol*  me  you 
was  a  fren*  and  if  you  ain't  I'se  goin'  to  fight  ma 
way  out,  right  hyer." 

And  he  looked  as  if  he  would  do  it  against  all 
odds. 

"  Served  you  good  an'  right,  you  old  fool,"  Lyme 
leaned  over  the  edge  of  the  window-sash  to  say  to 
the  dapple-gray  horse  hitched  to  the  wagon.  "  You 
never  did  know  beans,  an'  here  you  be  runnin'  off 
with  a  nigger  who  don't  know  'nough  to  thank  you. 
You're  the  blamedest  fool  in  seven  counties,  that's 
what  you  are,  Old  Ironsides." 

If  the  horse  did  not  comprehend  this  jocular 
tirade,  the  negro  did,  for  he  calmly  settled  back 
into  one  of  the  two  chairs  with  which  the  wagon 
was  furnished,  but  said  not  a  word. 

"  Git  ap,  there,  you  fool  of  a  hoss,"  Lyme  con 
tinued  in  the  same  facetious  strain,  "  'cause  I'm 
goin'  to  swap  you  for  a  yaller  dog  an'  throw  the 
nigger  in  to  boot.  Say,  nigger,  what  are  you  wuth 


82  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

anyways,  wuth  in  money,  so's  when  I  make  the 
trade  I  kin  deal  intelligent  ?  " 

"  Massa  Molby  paid  twelve  hundred  dollahs  fur 
me,"  Richards  replied,  and  he  now  spoke  as  if  he 
took  pride  in  this  measurement  of  his  value.  / 

"That's  a  heap  o'  money  for  a  nigger,"  Lyme 
said,  "  but  there's  no  accountin'  for  tastes.  Your 
master  must  have  wanted  you  purty  bad  to  have 
gone  down  into  his  eel-skin  for  twelve  hundred. 
Why  did  you  run  'way  from  him  ?  " 

"  I  done  wanted  to  see  de  Promise'  Land,  suah," 
Dick  answered. 

"  Didn't  he  treat  you  well?  "  Lyme  inquired. 

"  Yes  sah  ;  I'se  no  'plaint  to  make,    noway,  sah." 

"  An'  you  scooted,  leavin'  your  master  to  whistle 
for  his  twelve  hundred  ?  "  was  Lyme's  comment. 
"  Well,  this  is  what  I  think  of  this  transaction." 
He  went  on  speaking  again  to  the  dapple-gray  : 
"  This  is  grand  larceny.  The  constables'll  be  chasin' 
an'  cotchin'  you,  if  you  don't  hump  along,  for  havin' 
stolen  goods.  And  as  for  you,  nigger,"  Lyme 
continued,  looking  at  Dick,  "  I  don't  take  a  cent's 
wuth  of  stock  in  a  runaway  nigger.  I'm  helpin' 
you  out  of  your  scrape  'cause  that  gal  who  took 
you  to  Mr.  Gerritt's  last  night  would  want  me  to." 

"  Fore  de  Lor',  massa,  I  thank  you,"  Dick  said. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  83 

"  Thank  her,  not  me,"  Lyme  rejoined,  "  for  they'd 
had  you  in  the  calaboose  afore  this  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  her." 

Lyme  pulled  the  dapple-gray  to  a  standstill. 
The  road  had  led  into  a  gulch,  the  precipitous  sides 
of  which,  overgrown  with  ferns  and  mosses,  dripped 
with  the  ooze  of  many  springs.  Drawing  the  calico 
curtain  of  a  window  in  the  side  of  the  wagon,  Lyme 
pointed  the  negro  to  a  rocky  opening,  which  he 
said  could  be  easily  scaled.  Then  he  directed 
Dick  to  follow  the  lay  of  the  land,  sticking  to  the 
high  ground,  along  which  the  woods  stretched  for 
several  miles.  At  the  first  clearing  he  would  be  in 
sight  of  Vidlersville,  Lyme  informed  him,  and  hav 
ing  skirted  that  settlement  his  way  was  clear,  for 
Dick  had  already  been  over  the  ground  south  of 
that  village. 

Then  handing  the  negro  a  package,  in  which  there 
was,  as  he  said,  "  a  few  vittles,"  Lyme  unlocked  the 
wagon  door  and  told  the  negro  to  be  off.  Standing 
on  the  rutted  road  he  saw  Dick  clamber  up  the 
steep  incline  to  the  wooded  cover. 

"  Now  run  for  it !  "  he  shouted,  and  without  a  word 
the  negro  was  out  of  sight. 

"  Good  riddance  to  bad  rubbish,"  Lyme  said  as 
lie  went  into  the  wagon,  and  proceeded  on  his  way. 


84  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  Say,  old  boss,"  he  added,  tapping  the  back  of  Old 
Ironsides  with  the  reins,  "  I  hope  we'll  never  sot  eyes 
on  that  nigger  agin.  Doggone  it,  no  !  never  agin." 

This  was  a  vain  hope,  for  while  Lyme  was  doing 
Dick  this  good  turn,  the  negro's  friends  in  Smith- 
boro  were  formulating  plans  for  breaking  his  bonds 
of  iron  with  a  sledge  of  gold.  To  the  little  band  of 
persons  who  knew  of  Dick  Richards's  presence  in 
Smithboro  his  sudden  disappearance  was  a  surprise. 
The  secret  of  it  was  kept  from  most  of  those  who 
under  ordinary  circumstances  might  have  been 
entitled  to  it,  and  that  there  was  no  attempt  to 
penetrate  the  mystery  after  Mr.  Gerritt  had  given 
it  the  cloak  of  his  name,  was  one  of  those  proofs  of 
unquestioning  loyalty  that  gave  the  Abolition 
cause  the  strength  of  a  religion.  It  was  like  faith 
in  God.  Of  this  mettle  was  the  true  Abolitionist. 

Dick  had  made  a  strong  impression  on  the  friends 
of  the  cause.  His  resourcefulness,  as  much  as 
his  intrepidity,  in  misleading  his  pursuers  from  the 
trail,  thus  making  his  party  of  fugitives  secure  in 
their  hiding-place,  proved  him  to  be  a  man  of  excep 
tional  ability,  and  to  make  his  services  more  valuable 
to  the  cause  it  had  been  determined,  if  possible, 
to  buy  his  freedom.  It  had  been  resolved,  however, 
to  take  no  step  in  this  direction  until  the  scout  and 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  85 

his  companions  were  safely  bestowed  on  Canadian 
soil.  Of  Dick's  arrival  at  Kingston  Mr.  Gerritt  was 
duly  advised  three  weeks  later,  extreme  caution  hav 
ing  been  observed  in  forwarding  the  party  after  Dick 
rejoined  them,  on  account  of  the  vigorous  efforts 
made  to  overtake  them  in  their  flight.  Of  those  who 
had  been  in  pursuit,  only  Thornby  had  been  visible 
about  Smithboro,  and  a  watch  set  on  him  showed 
that  he  had  not  been  idle.  But  in  the  end  he,  with 
the  others,  drove  out  of  Smithboro  three  days  after 
Dick's  escape,  under  cover  of  a  tempestuous  night. 

It  was  Bess  Malcolm  who  first  thought  of  bringing 
Dick  to  Smithboro  a  free  man  to  aid  their  cause. 
She  did  more — she  proposed  to  buy  his  liberty  with 
her  own  money.  She  had  a  couple  of  thousands 
that  had  come  to  her  from  the  settlement  of  her 
father's  estate  in  Massachusetts,  and  this  had  been 
increased  by  two  years'  savings  out  of  her  salary  as 
a  schoolmistress  before  she  had  joined  her  sister  in 
Smithboro. 

"A  most  kind,  a  most  humane,  a  most  patriotic 
offer,"  Mr.  Gerritt  said  when  the  subject  was  first 
broached,  Bess  and  the  preacher  having  called  at 
the  mansion  on  that  errand.  "  But  I  beg  of  you, 
my  dear  young  lady,"  he  continued,  "  let  me  pro 
vide  the  means.  I  shall  be  well  repaid,  for  Dick  will 


86  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

be  of  valuable  assistance ;  and  I  am  only  sorry  the 
thought  did  not  occur  to  me.  I  shall  at  once  write 
to  Dick  for  the  name  of  his  master,  and  then  open 
negotiations  for  his  purchase  through  my  agent  in 
New  York." 

"  If  you  rob  me  of  the  pleasure  of  buying  his 
freedom,  with  my  own  money,  Mr.  Gerritt,"  Bess 
replied,  "  I  shall  be  deeply  grieved.  Let  me  enjoy 
the  consciousness  of  having  been  of  some  service  to 
the  great  cause,  Mr.  Gerritt,  please  do." 

"  Miss  Malcolm  has  set  her  heart  on  it,"  Mr.  Dis- 
brow  added,  "  and  though  it  may  exhaust  her  little 
store,  I  believe  that  above  all  things  she  would 
value  no  return  more  highly.  We  had  better  humour 
the  girl's  fancy." 

Bess  was  not  to  be  persuaded  otherwise  and  so  had 
her  way.  Mr.  Gerritt's  sole  reservation  was  that  if 
the  price  of  the  slave  was  in  excess  of  fifteen  hundred 
dollars  he  was  to  make  up  the  balance.  Inasmuch 
as  Col.  Sinclair  Molby,  of  Nashville,  Tenn.,  was  in 
the  position  of  a  man  selling  a  piece  of  property  that 
he  had  no  means  of  delivering  without  the  consent 
of  the  slave,  a  sharper  bargain  than  common  was 
driven  with  him  by  Mr.  Gerritt's  agent,  and  six 
weeks  later  Dick  Richards,  a  bondman  no  longer, 
came  back  to  Smithboro  fearless  of  all  the  world. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

WIN  DlSBROW's  practice  in  Smithboro  and  the 
country  round  about  was  crowding  his  waking 
hours,  and  his  father,  fearful  that  the  young  doctor 
was  burning  the  candle  at  both  ends,  lost  no  oppor 
tunity  to  solicitously  admonish  him  that  in  so  doing 
he  was  seriously  jeopardizing  his  life's  happiness. 

"  I  knew  a  young  feller  down  at  Shed's  Corners," 
Lyme  said,  "  and,  if  I  don't  disremember,  he  was  a 
doctor  too,  who  killed  himself  workin'  'tween  meals. 
There  was  no  more  let-up  to  him  than  there  is  to  a 
mill-stream  after  the  spring  rains.  Well,  one  day 
he  went  an'  took  a  ride  to  the  grave-yard  in  the  fust 
carriage.  Then  what  ?  Why  his  wife  and  her  second 
husband  went  up  where  the  flowers  bloomed  over 
him  ;  they  planted  clam  shells  'round  his  little  two- 
by-six  posy  bed,  watered  the  mound  with  fallin' 
tears,  an'  then  went  home  and  ate  up  all  his  quince 
preserves.  I  can't  jest  call  the  doctor's  name,  but 
it  might  have  been  Killmore.  The  Killmores  were 

o 

as  thick  as  hops  'round  Shed's  Corners,  an'  some  on 


88  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

'em  ought  to  have  been  sawbones.  Anyway  they 
ate  up  the  doctor's  quince  preserves  after  his  toes 
were  turned  up  to  the  daisies." 

"  But  there  must  be  a  first  husband  for  my  wife 
before  there's  a  second  one,"  Win  remarked,  not 
missing  the  implication  in  his  father's  witticism,  the 
intent  of  which  was  to  chide  him  for  long  delay 
in  placing  himself  under  the  magic  spell  of  Lem 
Haskins's  bergamot.  Win's  professional  standing 
had  been  sufficiently  established,  Lyme  thought,  to 
justify  speed  in  a  courtship  that  the  village  generally 
agreed  was  progressing  in  that  quarter.  The  village 
certainly  acknowledged  that  Dr.  Disbrow's  fortune 
was  made.  Had  he  not  been  called  to  attend  Peter 
Gerritt  when,  one  day,  the  great  liberator  broke 
down  under  the  weight  of  anxiety  he  was  carrying  ? 

As  a  matter  of  fact  Win  and  Bess,  if  the  village 
was  right  in  its  guess,  were  telling  each  other  the 
old,  old  story  in  the  old,  old  way.  Its  variations  from 
the  Smithboro  custom  lay  in  the  fact  that  it  was  not 
a  pastoral  wooing.  Certain  conventionalities  be 
longing  to  the  social  amenities  of  larger  communi 
ties  were  being  observed,  but,  after  all  was  said  and 
done,  there  was  no  doubt  Win  was  "sparking" 
Bess,  and  to  this  conclusion  the  village  had  arrived 
with  all  the  satisfaction  to  be  derived  from  practical 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  89 

unanimity  of  opinion.  The  one  question  left,  there 
fore,  was  when  they  would  "  hitch  up." 

It  was  a  love-making,  however,  that  a  romantic 
girl  like  Dorothy  Gerritt  could  not  abide.  Dorothy 
was  Bess's  best  friend,  and  in  their  moments  of  con 
fidence  she  was  in  the  habit  of  speaking  her  mind 
freely.  In  this  she  took  after  her  father,  the  sage 
of  Smithboro,  whose  prop  and  support  she  was  in 
hours  of  sorest  tribulation.  She  walked  midst  the 
fairy  forms  of  high  ideals,  but  with  no  far-away  look 
in  those  hazel  eyes  of  hers,  as  often  happens  with 
young  women  of  her  disposition,  and — to  speak  by 
the  card — of  her  training  in  a  household  where  the 
problems  of  life  rather  than  its  primary  lessons  in 
love  and  hope  and  fear  and  sadness  and  pleasure 
rule  the  trend  of  thought.  In  her  view  if  things 
were  not  right,  they  ought  to  be,  because  they 
would  be  pleasanter  so.  To  correct  the  wrongs 
that  confronted  her,  as  one  by  one  the  world  un 
folded  them,  to  straighten  them  out  at  the  sacrifice 
of  peace  of  mind — at  loss  of  sleep  even — appeared 
to  be  a  step  in  the  opposite  direction.  Dorothy 
was  a  little  philosopher. 

As  Dorothy  was  Bess's  constant  companion,  Win 
saw  a  great  deal  of  her,  and  he  often  wondered  if  it 
had  not  been  given  to  this  winsome  miss  of  nineteen 


90  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

to  teach  those  who  like  himself  were  heavy-laden  a 
way  to  shift  their  burdens.  His  absorption  in  the 
great  cause  of  Abolition  he  never  doubted  was  the 
expression  of  his  loftiest  sentiments,  and  that  it  was 
just  as  noble  for  a  woman  to  go  to  the  same  lengths 
was  his  fixed  belief,  until — alas !  for  the  selfishness 
of  these  lords  of  creation — he  came  to  wonder 
whether  what  became  him  as  a  man  did  not  show 
lack  of  tenderness  in  a  woman.  Then  he  would 
picture  Joan  of  Arc  riding  cap-a-pie  to  save  Orleans 
and  straightway  would  hate  himself  for  being  a 
poltroon.  But  had  he  heard  Dorothy  chide  Bess 
he  could  have  loved  her  then  and  there. 

"  Of  course,  it's  all  right,  Bess,  to  devote  ourselves 
heart  and  soul  to  the  salvation  of  the  slaves,"  was 
Dorothy's  way  of  putting  it,  "  but  I  never  hear  you 
and  Win  talking  of  anything  else,  and  I  don't  be 
lieve  you  do.  If  I  were  in  love  I'd  forget  father's 
name  was  Gerritt  and  my  own,  too." 

"  Girls  who  love  and  get  their  reward  usually  do 
forget  their  own  names,"  said  Bess.  "  They  have 
to." 

"  But  I'll  forget  mine  before  I  ever  get  that  far — 
when  I'm  in  love,"  added  the  daring  little  roman 
ticist. 

"  So  would  I,"  Bess  answered,  "  if  I  were  in  love." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  91 

"  But  you  are,  you  are,  you  are ;  and  so  is  Win, 
but  you've  both  such  a  funny  way  of  showing  it." 

"  Well,  then,  you  minx,  when  I'm  in  love,  I'll  say 
I  wont  show  it,"  Bess  said,  taking  her  friend  in  her 
arms. 

"  Did  you  say  won't  or  don't  ?  "  Dorothy  inquired, 
and  no  reply  broke  just  then  through  the  fondness 
of  their  embrace.  The  girls  were  looking  strange 
things  out  of  their  sparkling  eyes. 

"You  don't  love  him,  eh?"  Dorothy  said  at  last, 
her  rippling  laugh  breaking  the  spell.  "  You  don't 
love  him — not  a  bit  ?  Well,  if  that's  so,  he's  too 
nice  to  be  made  to  die  an  old  bachelor  for  hopeless 
love  of  you,  while  you're  waiting  for  slavery  to  be 
abolished.  So  you  won't  mind  if  I  pitch  in  ?" 

"  No,  certainly  not.  You're  welcome  to  him," 
was  Bess's  acceptance  of  the  challenge. 

"  You  dear  old  ninny  of  a  Bess  Malcolm,  you  !  I 
tell  you  if  you  don't  stop  mooning  about  Abolition, 
and  spend  a  little  good  time  in— in— other  ways,  you 
may  lose  him.  There  !  " 

Whereupon  Dorothy  thought  her  duty  to  her 
friend  was  done  and  having  kissed  her  fervently 
made  off  as  fast  as  she  could,  confident  that  the  half 
hour  had  not  been  wasted. 

To  what  extent   Dorothy    Gerritt   spoke   by  au- 


92  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

thority  it  would  be  difficult  to  say,  but  that  Win 
and  Bess  kept  the  great  cause  they  had  espoused  in 
the  forefront  of  their  lives,  was  beyond  question. 
It  was  an  awesome  movement,  this  of  the  Abolition 
ists,  in  the  success  or  failure  of  which  lives  were 
held  as  at  a  pin's  worth,  and  which,  as  it  gathered 
force,  like  an  irresistible  flood,  was  beating  at  the 
very  foundations  of  the  American  home.  Men  and 
women  stood  aghast  at  what  was  being  done  and 
what  they  themselves  were  doing.  In  the  face  of  it 
all  they  grew  old  before  their  time.  Yet  this  girl, 
with  no  vindictivencss  in  her  heart,  with  no  thought 
of  a  martyr's  crown,  with  no  emotion  in  her  breast 
except  that  of  human  sympathy,  flung  herself  into 
this  majestic  tide  and  floated  with  it,  like  a  bird  on 
the  crest  of  a  tempest.  She  was  finding  joy  in  the 
doing  of  the  thing  that  sounded  the  depths  of  her 
feelings,  and  that  there  was  a  man  whose  words 
touched  her  at  the  same  point,  was  enough  for  her. 
The  mere  form  of  the  words  did  not  matter.  She 
used  to  declare  to  herself  that  love  could  be  lifted 
above  a  lexicon  of  fine  phrases.  She  was  reading 
the  heart  of  man,  she  said,  in  a  brighter  light  and 
was  content. 

At  first  it  seemed  to  Win  as  if  he  could  not  say 
enough  in    praise  of  what   Bess  had   done    for  the 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  93 

cause  which  was  binding  their  lives  together.  She 
had  perhaps  impoverished  herself  by  ransoming  the 
slave  and  she  deserved  more  honour  than  words 
could  give  her. 

Nor  had  Dick  Richards  proved  a  poor  investment 
so  far  as  the  operations  of  the  Underground  Rail 
road  were  concerned.  The  negro's  sagacity  had 
not  been  overestimated  in  the  cost.  And  he  was 
as  indifferent  to  peril  as  he  was  sagacious.  Under 
the  pretense  of  having  the  care  of  Dr.  Disbrow's 
horse,  he  was  kept  constantly  employed  pointing  an 
ever-increasing  number  of  runaway  slaves  the  way 
to  the  Promised  Land.  He  learned  to  know  the 
Chenango  Valley  as  if  it  were  a  kitchen  garden. 
There  were  tracks  through  the  woods  that  no  one 
else  kne\v,  for  he  had  made  them  himself,  and  they 
led  to  hiding  places  as  cleverly  chosen  as  the  holes 
of  the  foxes.  Every  hollow  of  a  fallen  tree  into 
which  a  hunted  man  could  crawl,  every  cave  in  the 
rock  where  a  party  of  them  could  huddle,  was 
mapped  in  his  head.  In  the  sharp  work  of  foiling 
pursuit  of  the  fugitives  he  exhibited  the  keenest 
pleasure,  and  as  the  law  was  now  being  exerted  to 
the  very  utmost  to  stop  this  exodus  from  the  land 
of  Egypt,  the  black  scout  was  an  invaluable  aid. 

Notwithstanding  all  these  evidences  of  Dick's  use- 


94  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

fulness  to  the  cause  Win  took  a  hearty  dislike  to 
him.  It  was  a  declaration  of  this  aversion  that 
caused  a  shadow  to  come  between  Win  and  Bess. 

"  I  wish  he  had  never  come  here,"  the  young  doc 
tor  said  to  Bess  one  day.  "  He's  too  white  to  be 
black  and  too  black  to  be  white." 

"  I'll  take  the  responsibility,"  the  girl  replied. 
"  And  he  seems  to  be  lightening  all  our  burdens  by 
a  show  of  fidelity  that  it  is  most  cruel  of  you,  Win, 
to  criticise." 

"  Bess,  I  don't  want  to  be  cruel,  but  I  do  want  to 
be  just.  What  he  does  he  does  to  please  you — he's 
grateful  to  you  no  doubt,  for  buying  his  freedom. 
And  I  know  better  than  anyone  else  how  resource 
ful  he  is,  and  how  brave,  but  he  hates  me — I  know 
that,  too, — and  I  am  never  quite  sure  that  I  can 
trust  him." 

"  Perhaps  it's  because  he  does  risk  his  life  for  me 
that  you  hate  him,  too,"  Bess  said,  half  in  jest,  half 
in  earnest. 

"  I  don't  like  his  kind  of  gratitude.  It's  not  nat 
ural  in  a  negro  and  it's  too  much  like  that  of  a  dog 
for  a  white  man.  This  mixture  of  the  bloods  is  of 
all  things  in  slavery  the  most  abhorrent." 

Win  was  not  mistaken  in  his  man.  The  negro, 
while  nominally  subject  to  the  orders  of  the  doctor, 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  95 

obeyed  him  solely  because  he  was  the  spokesman 
of  his  benefactress.  To  her  he  was  as  faithful  as  a 
hound  and  master  of  everything  save  his  feelings  ;  he 
could  not  help  showing  them.  The  psychological 
reasons,  so  easily  within  range  of  a  medical  practi 
tioner's  comprehension,  were  not  apparent  to  Bess  ; 
nor  could  they  be  explained  by  him  to  her. 

Confronted,  therefore,  by  this  insurmountable 
difficulty,  Dr.  Disbrow,  the  physician,  and  Win 
Disbrow,  the  lover,  concluded  to  avoid  the  subject 
in  the  future.  Before  the  summer  was  over  he  had 
occasion  to  soundly  berate  himself  for  this  lack  of 
decision.  A  different  course  would  have  spared  the 
Abolition  movement  the  odium,  whether  right 
ly  or  wrongly  placed,  of  having  nursed  a  viper  in 
its  bosom. 

A  rumour  had  been  current  in  Smithboro  that  was 
so  monstrous  in  its  nature  that  it  seemed  to  carry 
its  own  refutation.  It  had  originated  on  the  steps 
of  the  Lafayette  Hotel.  The  ribald  tongues  of  the 
tavern  gave  it  a  start.  But  even  then  it  went  in 
guarded  whispers. 

"  It  serves  'em  danged  good  and  right,"  Clem 
Jones  said.  "  They  might  'uv  known  when  they 
fetched  the  nigger  here.  This  defyin'  the  law  and 
runnin'  'em  off  to  Canady's  bad  'nough,  but  when 


96  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

they  bring  'em  here  to  live  I  jest  says  I'm  agin  it ; 
and  I'm  fur  paintin'  his  black  hide  with  tar  and 
feathers." 

"  He  aint  got  no  black  hide,"  Postmaster  Adkins 
put  in,  "and  that's  jest  where  the  trouble  is.  He 
jest  ought  to  be  blacked,  and  p'haps  tar'd  do  it. 
Enyway  his  good  looks  oughter  be  spiled." 

Events  did  not  take  that  precise  turn.  Neverthe 
less  the  outraged  feelings  of  the  village  did  not  go 
unvented. 

Autumn  had  come  with  palette  and  maul-stick  to 
deck  the  dying  leaves  for  their  last  sad  flutter 
among  living  things. 

The  pall  of  midnight  was  on  the  little  village. 
The  footfalls  of  a  score  of  men  muffled  in  the  scat 
tered  leaves  gave  sign  that  strange  things  were 
happening  in  Smithboro.  Dim  figures  passed  to 
and  fro  like  apparitions.  To  witness  the  culmina 
tion  of  these  ghostly  preparations  the  townspeople 
were  presently  called  by  the  ringing  of  the  fire  bell 
that  hung  in  the  cupola  of  Deluge  Engine  Com 
pany's  house  over  on  the  green.  The  brazen 
clamour  awoke  the  village  as  from  the  dead.  It 
seemed  as  if  this  tumult  of  clanging  brass  must  be 
audible  to  the  uttermost  ends  of  the  earth.  Except 
on  gala  occasions  like  the  Fourth  of  July,  and 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  97 

Washington's  birthday,  the  fire  bell  was  more  an 
ornament  than  a  measure  of  protection,  but  it  was 
ringing  this  night  as  nobody  ever  heard  it  ring  before. 

Out  came  the  villagers  in  all  stages  of  undress, 
and  animated  by  as  many  apprehensions  of  dire 
peril  as  a  summons  so  unusual  and  so  ominous 
might  be  thought  to  excite. 

"  Fire  !  "  was  the  cry  yelled  through  the  dark 
streets.  It  was  caught  up  in  a  wild  frenzy  and  car 
ried  from  house  to  house. 

Fire  indeed  had  descended  on  Smithboro.  To 
those  who  looked  from  one  side  of  the  village  it  ap 
peared  as  if  the  other  side  was  doomed. 

A  mass  of  flames  that  leaped  above  the  highest 
of  the  elms  threw  the  distance  into  a  black  shadow. 
As  light  as  day  it  seemed  down  the  street  where 
amid  the  scurry  of  flying  feet,  a  rattle  of  heavy 
wheels  and  a  rallying  cry  of  running  firemen,  led  by 
a  bellowing  trumpet,  Deluge  Engine  Company  was 
on  its  way  to  the  rescue.  The  alacrity  of  the  fire 
men  in  getting  there  was  marvellous.  If  they  had 
stood  ready  behind  the  doors  of  their  house  with 
their  hands  on  the  ropes  they  could  not  have  shown 
greater  expedition.  Perhaps  they  had  taken  this 
precaution  !  There  was  an  air  of  mystery  about  the 
affair  from  beginning  to  end. 


98  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  It's  Frank  Daboll's  house,"  the  word  went 
round. 

"  If  what  they  say  is  true,  this  is  an  act  of  Provi 
dence,"  cried  a  good  woman,  when  the  word  reached 
her  ears.  Like  scores  of  others  she  cowered  in 
her  door-yard  appalled  by  the  scene  and  unwilling 
to  look  upon  its  dread  consequences.  Others  still 
rushed  through  the  red  glare  to  see  all  that  there 
was  to  be  seen,  like  so  many  moths  flying  into  a 
flame. 

"  Poor  thing,  whatever  happens  I  hope  she  wont 
be  burned  alive,"  was  the  pitying  cry  of  another 
woman. 

"  Shameless  hussy,  she  oughter  be,"  a  sister  less 
humane  exclaimed. 

"  If  the  nigger's  there  he  shouldn't  be  let  out," 
said  a  man  as  he  passed  on  the  run. 

In  the  excitement  of  the  moment  the  village  was 
finding  voice  for  the  rumour  of  the  tavern  steps.  It 
was  at  last  on  every  lip.  It  had  as  many  tongues  as 
a  fabled  serpent.  Every  forked  flame  was  tipped 
with  the  poison  of  the  scandal. 

What  a  spectacle  it  was  of  rural  vengeance  !  A 
tar  barrel  to  which  a  lighted  match  had  been  touched 
while  the  village  slept  was  blazing  at  the  Widow 
Daboll's  door.  This  was  the  way  Smithboro  hunted 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  99 

shame.  It  was  Smithboro's  way  of  branding  a  wom 
an  with  the  scarlet  letter. 

"  Pump  her  up,  Deluge  !  "  rang  out  the  hoarse 
order  through  the  fire  trumpet.  At  the  engine 
brakes  stood  two  ranks  of  straining  arms.  The 
machine  had  been  manned  by  the  avenging  spirits  of 
Smithboro.  At  the  word  they  bent  to  their  work, 
and  as  the  pump  chugged  in  unison  to  the  song 
of  "  Now  up,  now  down  ! "  the  firemen  stretched 
upward  and  doubled  at  their  knees  to  the  steady 
sweep  of  the  brakes,  A  silvery  flood  rose  above 
the  house  and  poured  over  its  angled  roof.  Smash 
went  the  windows  when  the  sputtering  stream  was 
aimed  at  the  brittle  panes,  and  as  the  wrecked  home 
dripped  water  at  every  chink,  the  people  howled  in 
merciless  approval. 

So  the  blazing  barrel,  grim  symbol  of  the  vil 
lagers'  outraged  virtue,  burned  to  a  handful  of  cin 
ders  ! 

Early  in  the  proceedings — sooner  than  it  was 
possible  for  the  gathering  villagers  to  see  the  spec 
tacle — a  frenzied  woman  had  dashed  from  the  house 
and  sped  through  the  open  fields  and  down  the 
path  beside  the  neighbouring  creek  into  the  darkness. 
But  this  story  was  narrated  and  denied  with  equal 
vehemence. 


loo  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

When  at  last  the  pounding  of  the  brakes  as  they 
went  up  and  down  had  ceased,  obedient  to  a  trump 
eted  order,  a  man  who  had  thrust  his  head  into  a 
glass-splintered  sash  yelled  that  there  was  someone 
inside. 

"  The  nigger,  the  nigger  !  "  was  the  furious  cry. 

"  Tar  and  feathers  !  "  was  the  merciless  echo  of 
this  alarm,  and  to  the  flickering  light  of  the  crumb 
ling  staves,  a  dozen  men  stumbled  over  each  other 
in  a  rush  inside.  They  came  out  a  few  minutes 
later  empty  handed. 

The  fun — for  fun  it  was  called  in  Smithboro — was 
over.  An  hour  later  all  was  as  quiet  as  ever  in  the 
virtuous  village. 

A  woman,  wrapped  in  a  single  garment  only, 
crept  from  the  shelter  of  the  woods  an  hour  before 
the  dawn  of  that  day,  and,  picking  her  way  through 
the  gloom,  returned  to  the  dismantled  house,  to 
leave  it  again  in  as  much  terror  with  a  few  neces 
saries  tied  in  a  shawl.  So  Smithboro  slept  while  the 
young  widow  of  Frank  Daboll  quitted  its  streets 
forever.  Smithboro  had  purged  itself  by  fire. 


CHAPTER  X. 

UNDER  the  elms  that  day  Peter  Gerritt  walked 
like  a  Nemesis.  He  had  set  the  seal  of  condemna 
tion  on  what  had  been  done.  Wrath  was  in  his 
speech.  On  the  culprits,  whoever  they  were,  on 
their  sympathizers,  one  and  all,  he  pronounced  judg 
ment.  Bitterness  was  in  his  heart  and  gall  on  his 
tongue.  He  was  a  different  Peter  Gerritt  from 
what  the  village  had  ever  before  known. 

"  You  have  put  a  stain  on  this  village,"  he  said  as 
he  stood  in  the  centre  of  a  group  of  excited  men, 
"  that  no  one  of  us  will  live  long  enough  to  see 
wiped  out.  In  the  sight  of  God,  before  the  law  of 
man,  there  is  no  palliation  for  it.  It  was  fiendish,  it 
was  barbarous,  it  was  wicked.  Shame  upon  you ! 
Shame  upon  you  ! 

"  Shame  yourself,  Peter  Gerritt,"  cried  Postmaster 
Adkins,  who  among  the  accused  first  found  courage 
to  defend  the  village.  It  was  a  new  thing  publicly 
to  take  sides  against  the  liberator.  Even  those 
whose  hostility  to  his  slavery  views  was  most  con 
spicuous  held  Mr.  Gerritt  in  such  esteem  as  a  man 
and  a  citizen  that  to  flout  him  in  the  streets  called 


102  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

for  a  degree  of  boldness  heretofore  unknown.  The 
people  of  Smithboro  had  learned  to  love  him  too 
well  for  the  good  he  had  done.  1 1  is  life  among 
them  had  been  a  benison. 

When  the  postmaster  hurled  back  the  odious 
phrase  that  Mr.  Gerritt  had  put  upon  the  village,  the 
listeners  shuddered  at  the  sound  ;  but  as  nothing 
came  of  it,  no  harm  to  him  or  to  them,  one  word  led 
to  another  until  like  a  mob  they  hooted  him. 

"  Brave  men  you  are  !  "  cried  Mr.  Gerritt,  standing 
his  ground  while  the  little  crowd  augmented. 
"  Brave  men,  indeed,  to  attack  a  defenceless  woman 
in  her  home,  and  at  dead  of  night  drive  her  naked 
into  the  woods,  as  if  she  were  a  wild  beast  !  " 

"  The  woman  be  damned  !  "  shouted  Clem  Jones, 
forcing  his  way  to  the  front.  "  That's  what  I  say — 
the  woman  be  damned.  'Twa'n't  her  the  boys  were 
arter — 'twas  that  nigger  of  yourn— that  spruce  Jim, 
Dick  Richards — and  you  know  it,  Peter  Gerritt." 

"  Only  wolves  rend  each  other,"  Mr.  Gerritt  made 
answer,  as  he  strode  off  under  an  outcry  of  vile 
epithets,  which,  when  his  back  was  turned,  the 
more  cowardly  sympathizers  with  the  proceedings 
of  the  night  before  thought  it  safe  to  utter. 

"  I'll  brain  the  next  man  who  says  a  thing  like 
that !  "  was  an  exclamation  from  the  outer  circle  of 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  103 

the  jostling  knot  of  angry  men.  It  was  Dr.  Disbrow 
who  spoke,  and  pushing  to  the  centre  of  the  throng 
he  manifested  a  fixed  purpose  to  make  good  his 
threat.  His  challenge  passed  unaccepted. 

"  You  ain't  no  better  nor  him,"  the  landlord  of 
the  Lafayette  Hotel  said,  "for  that  nigger's  as 
much  yourn  as  his'n." 

"  Well,  if  he  is,  what  then?  "  the  young  doctor  re 
plied,  facing  the  tavern-keeper  in  a  composed  man 
ner. 

"What  I  say  is,"  Jones  said,  "that  he  never 
oughter  have  come  here,  nohow.  Let  'em  stay  where 
they  'blong." 

"  He's  a  free  man,  Jones,  and  this  is  a  free  coun 
try,"  Win  answered. 

"  But  we  don't  want  any  free  love,  do  \ve,  Doctor  ?  " 
was  the  inquiry  of  a  villager,  whose  connection 
with  the  Abolition  cause  in  Smithboro  was  no 
secret.  "  That's  what  the  boys  don't  like.  We're 
agin  it,  black  or  white.  Richards  warn't  no  worse 
than  the  Daboll  woman." 

Half  a  dozen  men  quickly  volunteered  their  ap 
proval  of  this  view  of  the  case,  making  it  plain  in 
that  way  that  popular  sentiment  upon  the  question 
at  issue  was  not  to  be  divided  upon  the  old  lines 
of  slavery  and  anti-slavery. 


104  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  That's  a  lie  !  "  exclaimed  Jones,  who  was  abroad 
that  day  working  with  might  and  main  to  spread 
the  impression  that  what  had  been  done  was  an 
outburst  of  protest  against  the  introduction  of  free 
slaves  in  Smithboro.  What  effort  he  made  in  this 
direction  was  a  clumsy  effort,  but  with  his  aid  and 
without  it,  that  was  the  trend  of  general  comment. 
Away  from  Smithboro,  when  the  news  of  the  episode 
percolated  through  the  land,  the  conviction  was 
more  or  less  strong  that  the  cause  had  been  dealt  a 
serious  blow  in  the  home  of  its  most  steadfast 
friends.  After  that  it  demanded  a  little  more  of 
a  man  to  avow  himself  a  liberator. 

For  weeks  afterwards  the  village  was  nervous  and 
irritable.  The  burning  of  the  tar  barrel  in  the 
Widow  Daboll's  yard  had  set  many  of  the  good  folk 
at  cross  purposes.  It  was  planned  as  a  moral  les 
son  ;  it  became  a  bone  of  bitter  contention.  No 
one  was  quite  sure  that  the  infamy  of  which  the 
wretched  woman  had  been  accused  really  attached 
to  her,  and  the  fact  that  the  negro,  whose  face  of 
sculptured  bronze  was  said  to  have  ensnared  her, 
remained  in  Smithboro  to  meet  the  charge  served 
to  confuse  public  opinion.  Mr.  Gerritt's  vigourous 
espousal  of  Richards's  cause  in  the  end  had  a 
mollifying  effect,  though  he  failed,  as  he  designed 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  105 

to  do,  to  bring  his  fellow-citizens  up  to  the  point 
of  formulating  in  mass  meeting  a  denunciation  of 
the  outrage. 

Within  a  week  a  written  notice  had  been  displayed 
on  the  door  of  the  Free  Church  of  Smithboro  call 
ing  the  villagers  together  to  this  end.  At  a  meeting 
of  Deluge  Engine  Company  No.  i,  the  preceding 
night,  it  had  been  solemnly  resolved  that  to  the 
extent  of  its  influence,  political,  religious  and  social, 
the  organization  must  head  off  this  attempt  to  heap 
it  with  obloquy.  The  resolution  which  recorded 
this  determination  was  framed  by  the  village  editor, 
and  it  was  commented  on  by  everybody  present  as 
a  masterpiece  of  English  prose.  As  an  instrument 
for  the  moral  uplifting  of  the  community  the  fire 
company  did  not  propose  to  take  second  place. 

Mr.  Gerritt  had  subscribed  twenty-five  dollars 
towards  the  red  paint  and  gold  stripes  on  the  engine, 
and  things  had  come  to  such  a  pass  at  this  meeting 
that  it  was  seriously  proposed  to  return  him  his 
money.  Clem  Jones,  who  was  assistant  foreman  of 
the  company,  had  worked  the  meeting  up  to  the 
point  of  taking  this  action,  and  would  have  carried 
it  too,  had  he  been  able  to  suggest  where  the  money 
was  to  come  from. 

"  We'll  show  him  he  don't  run  the  hull  town," 


io6  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

was  a  remark  oft-repeated  in  the  meeting,  and  on  it 
the  fire  company  finally  compromised.  Peter  Ger- 
ritt's  mass  meeting  in  the  Free  Church  was  assur 
edly  afoul  of  the  fire  company  and  it  did  not  propose 
to  exert  itself  in  vain  this  time. 

Only  the  male  population  of  the  village  heeded 
the  call  for  the  meeting.  Of  its  women, — its  noble, 
self-reliant  women,  the  women  of  Smithboro  famed 
in  story — two  alone  came  forth  to  the  call.  They 
were  Bess  Macolm  and  Dorothy  Gerritt.  The  gos 
sip  of  the  meeting  was  that  neither  of  them  dared 
stay  away  for  reasons  that  were  obviously  personal. 

"  Tain't  no  go,  this  here  ain't,"  said  Dave  Sturgis, 
the  foreman  of  Deluge  Engine  Company.  "  We've 
done  what  we  sot  aout  to  do,  and  there  ain't  many 
men  here  dast  vote  fur  what  the  women  folks  don't 
sot  any  store  by." 

The  foreman  of  the  fire  company  was  a  student 
of  human  nature.  Smithboro  had  assembled  to  up 
hold  an  ancient  law  of  chivalry.  What  breach  had 
there  been  of  it  ?  Where  were  the  accusers? 

In  sorrow,  more  than  anger,  Mr.  Gerritt  made  al 
lusion  to  his  disappointment  that  the  fair  fame  of 
Smithboro  and  of  Smithboro's  women  was  held  in 
such  light  regard  by  those  whose  sacred  right  to  the 
protection  of  honest  men  should  of  all  things  con- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  107 

corn  them.  Mr.  Gcrritt  was  speaking  as  only  he 
could  speak  when  his  heart  was  touched.  There 
was  a  fascination  in  his  voice,  a  fervour  in  his  manner 
that  could  not  be  resisted,  and  as  point  after  point 
along  his  line  of  argument  was  scored,  the  audience 
moved  with  him. 

The  yelp  of  a  village  cur  broke  the  night's  still 
ness  as  the  orator  paused  for  breath. 

The  snarl  in  the  throat  of  another  dog  cracked 
and  snapped  and  grated  above  the  sound  of  scuffling 
feet  as  half  the  people  in  the  church  changed  their 
positions.  Grinding  teeth  were  heard  in  a  low- 
pitched  crescendo  of  yowls  and  barks.  Mr.  Gerritt 
took  a  second  for  breath,  for  he  saw  that  his  audi 
ence  had  become  for  the  moment  disconcerted. 
Those  nearest  the  open  windows,  craning  their 
necks,  peered  into  the  dark  of  the  village  green. 

A  boy's  head,  the  appearance  of  which  at  the  rear 
of  the  church  had  been  announced  by  a  tread  of 
heavy  boots  on  the  vestibule  floor,  now  put  Peter 
Gerritt's  noble  forehead  in  total  eclipse. 

"  Say,  Sime  Benson  !  "  came  from  the  doorway  in  a 
screechy  diapason,  "  Jones's  brindle's  got  holder  yer 
shepherd  dorg  an's  chawin'  th'  gizzard  aouter  'im  !  " 

Mr.  Benson,  who  sat  up  near  the  front  of  the 
church,  went  down  the  aisle  on  a  run.  Before  he 


io8  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

reached  the  door,  so  many  others  had  vacated  their 
places  in  the  back  pews  that  he  came  bumping  up 
against  them  where  they  were  struggling  to  get 
out  between  the  jambs.  It  is  said  the  Abolitionist 
ranter  was  so  upset  that  he  actually  profaned  the 
holy  temple  with  an  oath.  Angry  words  were  cer 
tainly  exchanged,  and,  as  might  have  been  expected, 
this  uproar  dissipated  the  last  hope  of  keeping  the 
meeting  in  order.  The  fact  was  that  from  the  first 
yelp  of  a  cur  in  pain  the  meeting  was  on  the  verge 
of  demoralization.  Even  the  eloquence  of  Peter 
Gerritt  could  not  stand  against  a  dog  fight. 

His  uplifted  palm  might  have  stemmed  the  tide, 
had  not  a  leading  citizen,  who  had  occupied  a 
mourner's  seat,  resorted  to  the  palpable  subterfuge 
of  putting  his  handerchief  to  his  face  while  he  walked 
out  under  the  pretext  of  having  the  nose-bleed. 
After  that  nobody  felt  bound  to  remain,  and  no 
body  did — that  is  nobody  except  Mr.  Gerritt,  Mr. 
Disbrow,  Bess  Macolm  and  Dorothy  Gerritt.  The 
shame  of  it  all  bowed  Mr.  Gerritt's  head  very  low. 
He  loved  Smithboro  and  would  have  saved  it  from 
infamy. 

"  I  have  done  my  best,"  he  said  as  he  led  the 
others  away  out  of  sight  and  sound  of  the  impious 
spectacle.  Win,  who  had  been  glad  enough  that  a 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  109 

professional  call  had  kept  him  away  from  the  meet 
ing,  came  up  with  them  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
green.  What  a  pitiable  fiasco  the  meeting  had 
been  was  made  known  to  him  in  a  few  words.  The 
two  dogs  howling  and  growling  in  the  tangle  of 
grass  almost  under  their  feet  as  they  passed  along 
mocked  at  their  serious  faces.  Around  the  space 
on  the  green  where  the  enraged  brutes  were  tearing 
each  other  to  pieces,  as  they  rolled  over  and  over 
in  a  splatter  of  bloody  froth,  circled  these  men  of 
Smithboro,  absorbed  in  the  issue  as  if  it  were  a  bat 
tle  of  high  principles.  By  one  of  the  onlookers  a 
lantern  had  been  brought,  and  while  he  held  it 
above  the  tumbling,  grumbling,  maddened  dogs,  the 
crowd  moved  backward  and  forward  to  keep  the 
arena  clear.  The  harder  the  animals  fought,  the  deep- 
erthe  gashes  their  gleaming  teeth  made  as  their  jaws 
crunched  together,  the  more  intently  was  the  fight 
watched  in  the  fitful  light  of  the  shaded  candle. 
There  were  partisans  of  both  dogs  in  the  crowd,  and 
they  hoarsely  shouted  encouragement  to  the  brindled 
bull  or  tawny  shepherd  as  long  as  either  had  a 
snarl  in  him.  Those  who  would  have  kicked  the 
curs  apart  said  so  under  their  breaths.  Hence  it 
was  that  not  until  Sime  Benson's  shepherd,  pulling 
his  sharp  nose  from  a  death-grip,  dragged  himself 


no  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

between  his  master's  legs,  and  crouched  there  for 
safety,  did  the  men  of  Smithboro  have  a  surfeit  of 
blood. 

"  Nuthin'  like  a  dorg  fight  to  make  folks  forgit 
how  much  they  owe,"  Lyme  Disbrow  remarked  to 
the  first  person  who  happened  his  way  after  it  was 
all  over.  "  Until  I'd  been  to  a  circus  I  thought  a 
dorg  fight  couldn't  be  beat.  Maybe  Smithboro'd 
change  its  mind  if  it  'd  git  out  in  Genesee  Street 
once  a  year." 

Mr.  Gerritt  halted  at  his  gate  long  enough  to  ex 
pound  the  philosophy  of  the  evening's  incidents. 
Was  this  sage's  insight  into  the  springs  of  human 
action  any  more  penetrating  than  the  picture- 
taker's  ? 

"  From  beginning  to  end,"  was  the  liberator's 
observation,  "  this  business  is  illustrative  of  the 
primitiveness  of  our  civilization.  We  like  to  think 
of  ourselves  here  in  Smithboro  as  members  of  an 
enlightened  community.  We  have  proved  that  we 
were.  Have  we  not  held  aloft  the  torch  of  Liberty  ? 
"  In  high  places  we  have  made  the  name  of  this 
little  village  a  menace  to  oppression.  On  cruel 
statutes  a  thousand  years  old  we  have  set  the  seal  of 
our  condemnation.  We  have  assumed  to  be  the 
leaders  of  men.  But  do  we  not  walk  as  bovs  who 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  in 

are  blindfold  ?  Our  cry  is  to  the  South — the  mis 
guided  South — that  human  slavery  must  end,  as 
Jew-baiting  ended  in  England  and  the  pursuit  of 
witches  ended  in  Massachusetts.  They  are  all  of  a 
kind — survivals  merely  of  a  pagan  time,  of  an  effete 
age.  What  then  will  be  said  of  us,  who  have  reared 
this  temple  of  Liberty,  when,  lapsing  back  into  the 
savagery  of  our  race,  we  snatch  up  the  torch  of 
Liberty  and  make  of  it  a  burning  brand  to  kindle  the 
fire  of  vengeance  ?  What  right  have  we  to  mark  sla 
very  for  destruction,  who  hunt  an  erring  woman 
from  our  midst  with  a  sword  of  flame  ?  It  is  but  a 
step  short  of  death  at  the  stake.  The  superstitions 
of  Salem  can  be  excused  as  well.  Ah,  friends,  it 
seems  as  if  we  had  not  advanced  very  far.  Barba 
rism  is  not  yet  dead  within  us.  I  have  always  pitied 
the  South  that  negro  bondage  was  its  inheritance. 
I  pity  it  more  than  ever  to-night.  By  our  own  sins 
are  we  confronted.  The  wrong  of  slavery  the  South 
does  not  know.  Have  we  the  right  to  point  them 
the  way  whose  better  instincts  do  not  rebel  at  what 
we  have  seen  to-night  ?  Is  it  for  us  to  say  that 
the  slave-holder  who  lays  bare  the  back  of  that 
which  he  has  been  taught  is  his  own  is  a  culprit, 
when  sane  men  like  those  of  Smithboro  take  seem 
ing  delight  in  looking  unabashed  on  two  dogs  made 


ii2  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

ferocious  by  the  taste  of  each  other's  blood,  and 
then  assume  to  be  clean  and  wholesome  ?  Believe 
me,  friends,  our  work  must  be  defined  by  broader 
lines." 

"  In  other  words,"  was  Win  Disbrow's  comment 
on  what  their  mentor  had  said,  "  everything  that  is 
done  in  the  name  of  right  and  justice  and  religion 
and  charity  is  not  good." 

This  observation  he  had  dropped  as  he  walked 
under  the  nodding  treetops  of  an  October  night 
towards  Bess's  home  with  Bess  on  his  arm. 

Bess  bit  her  lip.  As  if  the  pressure  there  applied 
must  have  its  compensation,  she  partly  released  her 
arm  and  said : 

"  I  will  not  quarrel  with  you,  Win.  Why  don't 
you  end  the  matter  by  sending  Dick  away  for 
good  ?" 


CHAPTER  XI. 

WIN  had  never  even  hinted  that  Dick  Richards 
should  be  sent  away  from  Smithboro  for  good.  He 
had  steadfastly  adhered  to  his  resolve  not  to  speak 
again  of  the  negro,  except  as  the  man  entered  into 
the  operation  of  the  Underground  Railroad,  where 
in  he  continued  to  figure  as  a  most  important  factor. 
Dick  seemed  to  be  working  out  his  destiny  in  the 
Abolition  movement  under  an  inspiration.  Its 
leaders  from  one  end  of  the  State  to  another  knew 
him  to  be  a  hero.  No  test  of  his  courage,  his  cun 
ning,  his  tirelessness,  found  the  black  man  wanting. 
It  was  as  if  he  was  determined  that  no  particle 
of  smudge  that  enveloped  the  Widow  Daboll's 
house  should  brand  him  as  an  outcast.  Whether 
justly  or  unjustly,  what  had  happened  had  increased 
the  number  of  his  enemies  and  rendered  their  hatred 
of  him  more  implacable.  But  those  who  aligned 
themselves  as  friends  became  so  without  reservation. 
Bess  Malcom  was  of  these,  for  she  would  not  toler 
ate  the  thought  that  the  man's  heart  was  black. 

"  Why  don't  you   send  him  away  ?  "  Win   asked 


ii4  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

himself,  having  taken  an  exceedingly  formal  leave 
of  Bess  at  her  door.  When  she  had  put  the  question 
to  him  he  had  pretended  not  to  comprehend  its 
significance.  He  was,  of  course,  perfectly  aware 
that  to  act  on  Bess's  suggestion  would  be  to  place 
his  own  peace  of  mind  above  the  success  of  the 
great  cause.  Such  a  proposition,  he  felt,  would 
indeed  pass  without  support  among  its  friends. 
Dick  Richards  was  doing  wonders.  Within  a  week 
had  he  not  established  a  most  ingenious  means  of 
communication  between  the  stations  on  the  Otselic 
Creek  by  floating  logs  down  its  swift  current,  logs  in 
which  messages  had  been  concealed  ?  As  the  stream 
flowed  northward,  by  resort  to  this  device  informa 
tion  conveyed  in  cabalistic  signs  was  made  available 
hours  before  it  could  be  carried  by  horse  or  foot,  and 
at  times,  too,  when  another  messenger  might  not 
have  been  able  to  elude  detection.  Of  a  certain 
timber,  and  notched  in  a  certain  way  for  the  purpose 
of  identification  these  logs  became  almost  as  sure 
as  Uncle  Sam's  post-boys.  "  Mr.  Wood,"  as  the 
logs  were  called,  was  relied  on  in  many  emergencies. 

Obviously  Dick  Richards  could  not  be  sent  away. 

"  Would  that  he  might  be,"  Win  said  in  the  voice 
of  his  meditations  as  he  wandered  under  the  elms. 
"  This  man  should  have  nothing  to  do  with  my 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  115 

happiness,  or  hers.  Yet  he  has,  and  always  has 
ever  since  he  cursed  this  place  with  his  presence. 
It's  not  fair  rivalry.  Sympathy  is  a  stronger  pas 
sion  than  love.  In  a  woman's  heart  it  is  often 
supreme.  Combine  pity  with  it  and  it  is  supreme. 
Were  this  man,  this  slave,  a  white  man,  and  not 
half  as  handsome,  to  what  might  not  Bess's  pity 
lead  her?  Good  God  !  What  am  I  saying !  What 
am  I  saying!  " 

The  thought  was  madness  to  him,  and  in  his  de 
spair  he  threw  himself  violently  on  a  grass  plot  in 
the  deserted  village  street. 

There  in  the  chill  air  his  father  found  him  not 
many  minutes  after,  as  he  strolled  towards  the  tavern 
with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth. 

Win  was  in  the  mood  for  a  confession  and  he 
frankly  told  his  troubles. 

"  You  might  as  well  know  first  as  last,"  the  young 
man  went  on  to  say,  "  that  I  am  as  anxious  to  have 
Bess  Malcolm  like  me  as  you  are,  and  that,  I  take 
it,  has  been  your  fatherly  desire.  I  have  tried  to 
please  her,  and  if  I  have  failed  it  is  in  not  having 
as  good  an  opinion  of  the  negro,  Richards,  as  she 
has.  I  have  been  honest  enough  to  say  so  to  her, 
and  since  then  we  have  avoided  the  subject.  From 
that  minute  things  have  not  been  the  same." 


ii6  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  'Course  they  haven't,"  the  picture-taker  broke 
in  to  remark.  "  What  kind  of  a  doctor  are  you,  not 
to  know  that  when  a  woman  has  a  thing  on  her 
mind  if  she  can't  talk  about  it,  she's  as  bad  off  as  a 
heifer  with  a  tail  too  short  to  brush  the  flies  off  her 
ear.  She  jest  up  an'  worries.  That  gal's  high- 
strung,  Win,  an'  mustn't  be  worried." 

"  I  refrained  from  discussing  the  negro,  father," 
Win  said,  "  because  I  feared  that,  not  being  able  to 
agree  on  the  subject,  it  would  be  better  to  drop  it 
altogether.  I  was  a  fool  for  speaking  of  the  fellow 
at  all." 

"Jest  so,"  came  the  sharp  reply  in  approval  of 
this  word  of  self-condemnation.  "  Couldn't  you  see 
that  the  nigger'd  turn  his  insides  out  to  please  the 
gal?  She  up  and  bought  him,  didn't  she  ?  Jest 
shelled  out  like  a  drunken  sailor  to  pay  the  damage. 
'Course  he  took  a  likin'  to  her.  A  dorg'd  do  that, 
an'  niggers  are  some  better'n  dorgs — leastwise 
some  niggers  an'  some  dorgs.  If  you  wanted  to 
have  the  gal  kind  o'  spruce  up  to  you,  why  didn't 
you  take  to  the  things  she  took  to — niggers  an'  all. 
I  did,  didn't  I,  though  it  went  agin  the  grain." 

"  But  an  honest  man  can't  hide  his  feelings,"  Win 
argued. 

"  Honesty  ain't  the  only  crop  that  can't  be  winter- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  117 

killed.  Doggone  it,  no  !  I  knew  an  old  skeezinks 
over  in  Perryville  who  went  to  jail  'cause  he  was  so 
blamed  honest.  They  put  a  summons  onto  him 
for  a  witness  in  a  hoss  case,  an'  not  bein'  sure  he'd 
come  the  next  day,  the  jedge  asked  him  to  confess 
himself  as  owin'  the  county  five  hundred  dollars, 
so'd  he  could  go  hum  on  his  own  recognizance. 
But  he  wouldn't  do  it,  sayin'  he  didn't  owe  a  mortal 
soul  a  red  cent,'  an'  wouldn't  perjure  himself.  So 
they  stowed  him  away  in  the  black  hole  till  they 
wanted  him.  His  name,  as  I  recollects,  was  Simp- 
kins,  but  that's  nuther  here  nor  there.  His  honesty 
like  the  measles  was  terrible  painful  when  it  struck 
in." 

"  What  is  your  advice  ?  "  Win  finally  asked.  He 
was  not  given  to  brooding  over  the  things  that  per 
plexed  him.  His  disposition  was  naturally  buoyant 
and  cheerful.  "  What  is  your  advice  ?  "  he  repeated, 
Lyme  having  taken  a  longer  time  than  usual  in 
which  to  frame  a  reply.  "  Should  I  say  to  Bess 
that  I  can't  consider  the  suggestion  that  Dick  be 
sent  away  ;  that  he  is  too  useful  to  us,  and  that  I 
will  try  and  learn  to  like  him  ?  I  can't  promise  to 
do  so,  for  I  do  not  trust  him.  Would  that  do  ?  " 

"  Doggone  it,  no  !  that  wouldn't  work,  not  a  bit  on 
it,"  was  the  father's  quick  rejoinder.  "  If  you've 


i IS  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

got  any  books  on  women  in  your  black  walnut  cases 
you  want  to  put  your  nose  'tween  the  leaves. 
Can't  you  see,  Win,  she's  comin'  round  to  your  way 
o'  thinkin'  ?  Jest  you  give  the  dead  an'  dyin'  a 
chance  for  life  to-morrer  mornin'  an'  drop  round  on 
Bess  an'  talk  it  over.  Jest  you  take  her  at  her  word. 
Maybe  she's  as  sick  o'  the  nigger  as  you  be.  I  ex 
pect  she  is.  She's  as  smart  as  a  steel  trap  an' 
ought  to  see  things  ain't  goin'  right — leastwise  take 
her  at  her  word.  Did  I  ever  tell  you  'bout  that 
friend  o'  mine  over  at  Mile  Strip  who  wanted  to  sell 
hisoldhoss?  Didn't  I?  He  stuck  up  a  sign  on 
his  barn,  writ  by  himself,  sayin'  the  hoss  was  for 
sale,  an'  givin'  as  a  reason  for  sellin'  that  he  was  too 
h-e-a-v-e-y  for  his  owner.  He  jest  up  an'  spelled  it 
h-e-a-v-e-y,  jest  like  that.  All  the  deestrict  school 
children  come  'long  an*  bust  their  buttons  laughin' 
at  the  sign.  By  an'  by  a  college  chap  from  Syracuse, 
who  was  drivin'  through  the  country,  spied  the  sign, 
an'  asked  to  see  the  hoss.  He  was  a  good-lookin'  hoss, 
but  did  seem  as  if  he  needed  a  little  hard  work  to  git 
him  in  condition,  bein'  as  fat  as  butter.  The  college 
chap  took  anuther  squint  at  the  sign,  an'  then 
planked  down  the  yellow  bellies  for  the  hoss. 
'  This  hoss  ain't  too  heavy  for  me,'  says  he,  an'  off 
he  goes  down  the  road.  Afore  he  he'd  gone  much 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  119 

of  a  piece,  the  boss  was  gruntin'  like  a  stuck  pig. 
He  hadn't  breath  'nough  in  him  to  blow  up  a  blad 
der.  Back  goes  the  college  chap  to  Mile  Strip  with 
blood  in  his  eye,  wantin'  his  money  back,  an'  no 
questions  asked.  He  'lowed  he'd  been  cheated  out 
on  his  eye  teeth.  The  hoss,  he  said,  had  the  heaves 
so  powerful  bad  he  couldn't  waddle. 

'Jest  so,'  says  my  friend,  'jest  so.  And  that's 
jest  what  the  sign  says — too  heavey  for  the  owner.' 

'  No,'  the  college  chap  says,  '  the  sign  says  too 
heavy  for  the  owner.'  '  How  do  you  spell  heavy? ' 
my  friend  up  and  asks  kind  o'  cute  like.  Then  the 
college  chap  reads  the  sign  agin  and,  gettin'  rippin' 
mad,  says  as  how  he  thought  my  friend  meant  heavy 
not  heavey.  An'  he  had  to  keep  the  hoss,  'cause  he 
didn't  take  my  friend  at  his  word.  What  ivas  that 
feller's  name?  Blamed  if  I  can  think  on  it.  But  he 
didn't  know  'nough  to  take  people  at  their  word." 

"  Uncle  Abner  is  right,  father,"  Win  said,  "  you 
speak  in  parables.  I'll  think  it  over  ;  perhaps  things 
will  look  brighter  in  the  morning.  They  aren't 
half  as  dark  as  when  you  found  me." 

And  the  young  doctor  went  to  bed  with  a  lighter 
heart.  The  balm  of  an  easy  pillow  brought  him  to 
the  next  day  in  fine  spirits.  He  thought  now  of 
the  presence  of  the  negro  scout  as  of  no  more  con- 


120  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

sequence  than  a  gossamer  thread  of  a  spider's  spin 
ning  stretched  across  his  path.  It  could  be  brushed 
aside  whenever  he  willed  it  so.  He  marvelled  that 
he  could  have  conceived  Richards  to  have  been  of 
even  passing  interest  in  his  scheme  of  life. 

In  this  jubilant  frame  of  mind,  therefore,  he  took 
Bess  into  his  buggy  that  evening  for  a  drive  on  the 
creek  road.  It  was  a  winding  way  along  the  waters' 
course  much  frequented  by  the  swains  and  damsels 
of  the  village  ;  once  it  had  been  the  post  road,  now 
the  traffickers  had  left  it  to  the  lovemakers.  The 
pioneers'  trail  beside  the  creek,  twisting  and  turn- 
ning  to  the  caprices  of  a  wandering  stream,  had 
given  way  to  the  turnpike  laid  out  as  nearly  as 
possible,  between  points,  as  the  crow  flies.  All 
hail  this  tireless  mapmaker,  with  a  compass  in  his 
pinions  and  a  surveyor's  transit  in  his  beak  !  Love 
you  may  be  sure  was  willing,  as  it  ever  will  be,  to 
take  the  old  roads.  So  Win  and  Bess  rode  out  of 
Smithboro  in  the  purple  haze. 

It  was  one  of  those  days  of  the  waning  year,  when 
the  parting  glow  of  the  descending  sun  seems  to 
hang  in  the  dome  of  heaven  like  a  halo,  an  absorbed 
light  that  puts  the  sheen  of  silk  on  the  duller  fabric 
of  the  overhanging  grayish  clouds,  and  while  it 
spends  its  force  in  the  black  face  of  Night,  dies  out 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  121 

in  a  burst  of  glorious  colour.  In  this  light,  while  it 
lasted,  the  young  people  let  the  horse  jog  along  the 
creek  road.  On  one  side  the  jagged  cliffs  or  crumb 
ling  gravel-banks  darkened  the  way,  and  at  the  other 
side  tumbled  and  roared  the  stream  in  a  wild  torrent ; 
for  after  running  in  long  stretches  of  mile  upon  mile 
of  stillwater,  with  here  and  there  a  downward  plunge 
into  the  rapids,  as  far  as  Smithboro,  the  waters 
broke  into  a  mad  gallop  over  the  boulders,  singing 
in  their  freedom,  like  the  poor  creatures  whose  re 
lease  from  bondage — as  did  their  own — lay  to  the 
North,  where  the  crested  waves  of  Lake  Ontario 
lapped  the  shores. 

"  Pictures  of  Nature  like  this,"  Bess  said,  "  always 
seem  to  make  it  a  sacrilege  to  talk." 

They  had  been  silent  for  a  long  time.  The 
horses'  hoofs  pattered  over  the  stony  foothold  as  if 
they  were  travelling  on  a  carpeted  floor.  The 
drooping  branches  of  the  sumac  and  thorn-apple 
and  wild  cherry  had  spread  their  fallen  leaves  into 
a  weave  of  oriental  dyes  beneath  their  wheels. 

"  Strange,"  Win  said,  taking  up  Bess's  observa 
tion,  "  I  always  feel  like  trying  to  outcry  Nature  in 
whatever  voice  she  speaks.  I  have  sat  down  here 
on  this  creek  hundreds  of  times  when  a  boy  seeing 
if  I  could  make  sounds  to  imitate  the  dash  of  the 


122  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

water  against  the  rocks.  Sometimes  the  sound  is 
almost  human.  There  !  Did  you  catch  that  note  ? 
But  I  never  quite  mastered  the  song  of  the  waters. 
I  was  never  stumped  by  the  call  of  a  bird,  or  any  of 
the  noises  of  the  animals  I  used  to  shoot  and  trap, 
but  the  sirens  down  there  in  the  creek  knew  a  music 
that  defied  me.  As  a  boy  I  would  have  given 
all  I  thought  dearest  in  the  world  to  catch  that  fairy 
voice,  to  talk  to  it  in  its  own  sweet  tongue,  for  I 
felt  that  in  no  other  language  could  we  understand 
each  other." 

"  I  have  heard  such  voices,"  Bess  said.  "  When 
they  are  transcribed  we  call  it  poetry,  I  suppose." 

"  When  we  hear  them,  Bess,  what  are  they  called  ?  " 
was  Win's  question  as  he  snapped  a  bunch  of 
brown  leaves  off  their  stems  with  the  lash  of  his  whip. 

"  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  unless  it  is  music,  as  you 
describe  it." 

"Your  voice  is,  Bess." 

"  O,  no  it  isn't.  Win,"  replied  the  girl  turning 
sharply  to  him  her  eyes  alive  with  playfulness,  and 
softness,  too.  "  No  it  isn't,  for  you  don't  half  try  to 
talk  to  me,  or  understand  me,  either.  Now  if  you 
would  only  try  to  like  me  as.  well  as  Uncle  Lyme 
does — or  as  you  did  the  brook  when  you  were  a 
boy." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  123 

"  I'm  not  a  grandfather  now,"  Win  answered, 
"  and  I  never  felt  more  like  a  boy  in  all  my  life." 

"  It's  a  pity,  Win,  it's  so  late,  for  we  can't  stop 
here  to  listen  to  the  sirens,  and  here's  the  place  to 
turn." 

They  had  indeed  reached  a  spot  on  the  road  where 
the  high  bank  had  caved  in,  and  formed  a  natural 
turnout.  Into  this  space  Win  drew  rein.  What 
light  he  had  came  from  the  glinting  waters.  The 
wheels  were  cramping  for  the  turn,  when  the  horse, 
pricking  up  his  ears,  reared  on  his  haunches  and 
began  to  lunge  towards  the  edge  of  the  stream,  lying 
at  that  point  twenty  feet  below  the  roadway.  Win 
was  using  every  muscle  in  his  body  to  bring  the 
horse  to  his  feet.  Bess  stared  into  the  deep  shadow. 

"  There's  someone  there,"  she  said  in  an  under 
tone. 

As  she  spoke  the  outlines  of  a  man's  figure  were 
defined  against  the  shimmering  light  which  the 
water  reflected,  and  with  a  quick  jerk  at  his  bridle 
the  careening  horse  came  down  to  steady  feet. 

"  I  reckon  I  kin  help  you,  Missy  Bess,"  the  man 
said.  It  was  Dick  Richards,  and  without  another 
word  he  undertook  to  lead  the  horse  around  to  head 
him  for  Smithboro. 

"  Keep  your  hands  off !  "  Win  cried,  resenting  this 


I24  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

interference  ;    but   the    negro  held    fast  to  the  bit 
until  the  turn  was  safely  accomplished. 

Win  felt  Bess  close  at  his  side,  and  divined  that 
she  was  as  alarmed,  perhaps,  as  he  was  surprised. 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  cried 
at  the  negro,  who  stepped  boldly  into  the  middle  of 
the  road,  and  stood  there  as  if  he  awaited  orders. 

"  I'se  done  takin'  a  walk,  Missy  Bess,"  Dick 
replied,  ignoring  the  source  of  the  inquiry  and 
making  an  obsequious  bow  in  Bess's  direction. 

"  You  might  have  frightened  our  horse,  Dick, 
and  tumbled  us  into  the  creek,"  Bess  said  in  a 
reproachful  tone. 

"  I'se  not  done  dat,  Missy  Bess,"  was  the  negro's 
response.  "  I'se  done  saved  you.  I  was  jess  behind 
you  all  the  time,  suah." 

"  Behind  us  !  "  Win  shouted.  "  Skulking  behind 
us  !  Why  were  you  following  us?  Why,  I  say?  " 

The  negro  looked  straight  at  Bess  Malcolm  as  if 
she  had  framed  the  inquiry. 

"  I'se  done  tol'  you,  Missy  Bess,"  he  said,  "  dat  I'se 
done  takin'  a  walk." 

"  Now  look  here,  you  black  scoundrel,  you  answer 
me,"  Win  almost  shrieked,  as  his  passion  increased. 
"  What  did  you  follow  us  for?  Answer  me,  me,  me, 
not  her  !  " 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  125 

His  right  arm,  in  which  he  gripped  the  whip,  shot 
upward.  The  lash  swished  through  the  depending 
boughs  above  their  heads  and  poised  ominously  in 
mid-air. 

"  Don't ! "  cried  Bess,  catching  Win's  wrist. 
"  Don't  !  How  could  you  have  used  those  awful 
words  ?  " 

Win  hardly  heard  the  admonition  into  which  Bess 
had  thrown  so  much  feeling.  If  he  did  he  had 
passed  beyond  the  bounds  of  heedfulness.  He 
glowered  at  the  negro  speechless  with  rage.  Dick 
stood  without  a  tremour  on  his  lips.  He  had  caught 
the  note  of  sympathy  in  the  girl's  voice,  had  marked 
how  this  untoward  reference  to  his  colour  had  hurt 
her,  and  had  seen  that  she  had  thrown  herself 
between  him  and  the  descending  lash. 

At  a  stride  he  was  close  to  Win's  ear,  and  in  a 
voice  plaintive  and  musical  he  said  : 

"  Dis  hyar  nigger  done  lub  music,  same  as  white 
man." 

The  next  instant,  Dick  Richards  broke  through 
the  alder  bushes  bordering  the  creek,  and  leaping 
down  its  ragged  bank,  shot  into  the  stream.  Bound 
ing  from  boulder  to  boulder,  half  the  time  submerged 
to  his  middle,  he  clambered  up  the  opposite  side 
and  was  lost  in  the  gathering  darkness. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

ALONE  in  her  room  an  hour  later  Bess  wept  as  if 
her  heart  would  break. 

"  How  dared  he  do  it  ?  How  dared  he  do  it  ?  " 
she  moaned,  as  she  lay  on  her  moistened  pillow, 
burying  her  shame  in  its  recesses.  It  seemed  to  the 
stricken  girl  as  if  her  flaming  cheeks  would  scorch 
the  linen  folds. 

She  felt  the  hot  blood  beat  at  her  temples  like  the 
strokes  of  a  hammer.  Into  her  brain  surged  a 
thousand  questions,  some  of  them  accusations,  some 
of  them  justifying  her  every  act,  but  all  left  unan 
swered  in  the  unfathomable  depths  of  her  misery. 

"  Poor  fellow,  poor  fellow,"  she  cried,  smothering 
the  words  of  pity  for  the  negro  in  her  pillow. 
"  What  has  he  done  ?  What  have  I  done  to  de 
serve  it  all?  If  he  did  but  know — but  he  cannot 
understand  ;  he  never  will.  And  Win,  what  will  he 
think  ?  Does  he  think  that — no,  no,  no,  he  does 
not,  he  must  not !  I  will  tell  him  it  is  all  a  dreadful 
mistake.  I  cannot  live  and  have  him  think  this  of 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  127 

me.  Does  he  think  it?  Does  he?  It  would  be 
wicked,  wicked,  wicked!  Why  didn't  he  speak  to 
me?  Why  didn't  I  speak  to  him? 

There  was  no  surcease  in  her  sorrow  until  she 
sobbed  herself  to  sleep.  Why  had  he  not  spoken  ? 
Why  not  she  ?  Stunned,  mortified,  outraged,  Win 
and  Bess  had  come  home  with  sealed  lips.  The 
negro's  words  had  struck  them  dumb.  He  said  so 
little,  and  meant  so  much,  that  condemnation  of  his 
sinister  avowal  had  appeared  to  Win  to  be  futile ;  to 
Bess,  rejection  of  the  affront  seemed  to  be  unmaid- 
enly.  Under  different  circumstances,  the  fact  that 
the  negro  had  dared  to  be  so  bold  might  have  been 
passed  off  with  a  laugh.  In  her  light-hearted  way 
she  would  have  set  the  incident  aside  as  too  silly  to 
be  thought  of  a  second  time.  A  dog  which  had 
stolen  to  her  side  while  she  slept  and  licked  her 
cheek  she  would  have  cuffed  and  then  fed.  But  the 
scene  by  the  brookside  had  been  too  tragic  for 
that. 

In  the  beginning  she  did  not  think  of  herself  at 
all  as  an  element  in  it.  Every  other  detail  was  over 
shadowed  by  a  startling  picture  of  a  white  man  in 
the  attitude  of  laying  a  whip  over  a  black  man. 
All  the  horrors  of  slavery  crowded  into  her  imagina 
tion.  What  symbol  was  this  of  the  God-given 


128  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

authority  of  the  one — of  the  irredeemable  servility 
of  the  other !  She  never  doubted  that  beside  her 
sat  a  relentless  foe  to  slavery,  a  brave  man,  a  true 
man  ;  yet,  moved  by  his  natural  impulses,  had  he 
not  attempted  to  pull  down  the  pillars  of  the  temple 
of  which  he  was  himself  an  apostle?  Had  a  man 
of  his  own  colour  offered  her  an  insult  as  monstrous, 
Win  Disbrow  she  thought  would  have  sprung  at  his 
throat.  It  would  have  been  a  struggle  of  man  to 
man.  He  would  no  more  have  lifted  a  lash  than  he 
would  have  gone  against  an  unarmed  antagonist 
with  a  dagger.  The  whip  was  for  a  slave  ! 

"  It  was  a  coward's  act,"  the  girl  would  have  said 
had  her  first  thoughts  found  voice. 

"  Villain,  I  will  kill  him,"  would  have  been  Win's 
words,  but  he  too,  overmastered  by  the  repulsive- 
ness  of  the  negro's  declaration,  left  the  words 
unspoken.  A  curt  "  We  will  hurry  home,"  when 
they  started  back,  and  a  bitter  "  Good-night "  at 
the  gate  left  their  minds  in  a  state  of  turmoil  that  a 
few  words  of  confidence  might  have  cleared  of  all 
distress.  It  was  the  horrible  seriousness  of  the 
situation  that  barred  the  way. 

When  Win  found  the  solitude  of  his  chamber  he 
pulled  a  drawer  from  under  the  marble  top  of  a 
table  strewn  with  books  and  papers.  Stooping 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  129 

down  he  picked  up  from  among  its  disordered  con 
tents  a  pistol,  the  revolving  barrel  of  which,  with  its 
four  openings,  he  dusted  on  his  coat  sleeve.  As  he 
cocked  and  snapped  the  weapon  it  clicked  like  a 
death-watch.  A  classmate  at  Albany  had  given 
the  pistol  to  Win  as  a  parting  gift,  and  he  recalled 
how  he  made-believe  to  employ  it  on  the  dastard 
who  had  wronged  him  !  They  had  been  at  the  play 
that  night,  and  the  melodrama  they  had  seen  they 
had  reenacted. 

<l  I'll  not  need  you,"  Win  said.  He  was  speaking 
to  himself.  Then  going  to  the  window  he  lifted 
the  sash,  and  into  a  pond,  located  more  by  the 
croaking  frogs  than  by  the  star-lit  sky,  he  flung  the 
pistol  from  him.  As  it  splashed  upon  their  haunt 
the  frogs  ceased  croaking.  Win  shut  down  the  win 
dow,  and  lighting  a  pipe  gave  himself  up  to 
thought. 

When,  the  next  day,  his  father  saw  Win  his  face 
was  drawn  and  his  eyes  blood-shot.  His  fitful 
slumber  had  been  tormented  by  an  ever-recurring 
question,  What  should  he  do?  To  the  picture- 
taker  he  carried  the  same  question. 

"What's  got  into  you,  boy?"  was  Lyme  Dis- 
brow's  first  query.  "You  look's  if  you'd  been 
pulled  through  a  wringer." 


130  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Win  told  his  story  as  freely,  as  frankly,  as  meekly 
as  if  he  were  a  boy  again.  They  had  gone  inside 
the  picture-wagon  to  be  alone.  Lyme  had  been 
found  there  hard  at  work  in  his  dark  room  with  his 
shirt  sleeves  rolled  to  his  elbows. 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?  "  said  Win,  repeating  aloud 
the  question  that  a  thousand  times  he  had  asked 
himself. 

"  Do  'bout  what  ?  "  Lyme  made  reply,  the  while 
he  kept  his  hands  busy  slipping  tintypes  into  their 
pink  paper  cases. 

"  About  the  negro,  father  ;  about  Richards  ?  " 

"Nuthin'  "  was  the  picture-taker's  blunt  answer. 
"  Not  a  darned  thing.  Let  the  devil  take  care  o' 
his  own." 

"  I'd  have  done  it  last  night, — I'd  have  killed  him 
if  she  could  have  been  kept  out  of  the  affair." 

"  Killin's  murder,  my  boy,"  the  father  said  dryly, 
"  an'  no  Disbrow  ever  done  it  yit.  Good  thing  you 
slept  on  it,  too,  for  you  won't  have  to.  That  nig 
ger's  gone  for  good — you  bet  your  boots." 

"  Gone  !  "  exclaimed  Win.  "  Where  ?  When  did 
he  go  ?  " 

"  I  dunno  where,  nuther  when,  but  he's  lit  out, 
sure's  eggs  are  eggs.  He  made  his  bow  to  perlite 
society,  I  kin  tell  you,  when  he  took  that  bath  in 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  131 

the  creek.  An'  I'm  the  biggest  fool  unhung  for 
havin'  him  in  my  hands  twice  an'  lettin'  him  slip 
through  my  fingers.  If  it  wasn't  that  Old  Ironsides 
knows  more'n  I  do  I'd  lose  my  way  every  time  I 
go  takin'  pictures  down  the  road.  Doggone  it,  no  ! 
I  don't  know  nuthin'  !  " 

"I  hope  he's  gone;  then  I'll  know  what  to  do," 
Win  said,  seeming  to  take  for  granted  that  the 
superior  intelligence  of  his  father,  in  whom  indeed 
he  had  the  utmost  confidence,  was  not  lacking  in 
the  power  of  divination  in  this  instance. 

"  'Course  you  know  !  You'll  go  to  the  gal,  like 
the  spunky  young  feller  you  be,  seein'  you've  got 
Disbrow  blood  in  your  veins,  an'  talk  to  her  jest 
as  you  have  to  your  old  daddy.  'Course  you  know 
what  to  do  this  time.  You  don't  allus.  You  jest 
kicked  over  the  churn  full  of  cream,  boy,  when  you 
brought  that  nigger  here  to  Smithboro.  I  ain't 
sayin'  a  word  agin  the  Abolish  movement,  not  a 
word,  an'  you  kin  keep  right  on  freein'  niggers 
till  Kingdom  comes,  but  I  tell  you  this  climate 
ain't  congenial  for  'em.  Send  'em  up  to  Canady 
to  bleach  out,  an'  then,  perhaps  in  a  hundred  years 
or  so,  they'll  make  good  members  o'  the  church, 
if  nuthin'  else.  I'm  not  savin'  niggers  ought  to  be 
druv  like  cattle,  an'  walloped  for  not  workin',— 


132  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

I'd  a  been  ashamed  o'  you,  Winfield  Scott  Disbrow, 
if  you'd  a-struck  that  man  with  your  whip, — but 
till  we're  all  colour-blind,  an'  can't  tell  a  nigger 
from  a  white  man,  we  won't  make  a  brother  o' 
him.  If  that  nigger's  as  good  as  the  rest  on  us,  as 
Peter  Gerritt  an'  your  Uncle  Ab  says  he  is,  he's 
good  'nough  to  marry  a  white  woman,  as  lots  on 
em's  doin'  ;  it  won't  work,  my  boy,  it  won't  work. 
Doggone  it,  no  !  '  Course  it  won't." 

"But  father,"  Win  interrupted  to  say,  his 
principles  being  under  assault,  "  you  are  taking 
the  extreme  view.  Is  it  fair — " 

"You  let  your  old  daddy  have  his  say,  won't 
you  ?  I  calculate  to  hold  my  hush  most  o'  the 
time.  I  ain't  sittin'  on  the  tavern  steps  workin' 
my  jaw  like  the  rest  on  'em.  I'm  jest  sayin* 
what's  on  my  own  mind  to  you.  I  may  see  things 
the  wrong  side  up.  It's  the  way  they  look  to 
me  when  I'm  behind  the  camera.  The  ground- 
glass  stands  everybody  on  his  head,  but  when 
I  get  'em  in  there,  in  the  dark  where  nobuddy 
can  see,  I  straighten  'em  out  slick  an'  nice. 
Sometimes  I  think  that  I'm  seein'  this  nigger 
business  upside  down — lookin'  through  the  ground- 
glass  as  it  were.  Maybe  that's  so.  But  if  it  looks 
topside  under  to  me,  how  can  you  fellers  tell  it's 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  133 

all  right  ?  You  can't  tell  how  a  picture's  goin'  to 
look  from  where  you  sit.  Doggone  it,  no !  I'd 
ruther  be  behind  the  camera." 

Win  broke  in  long  enough  to  insist  that  his 
father  was  taking  the  negro,  Dick  Richards,  as 
the  representative  of  the  enslaved  race  as  a  whole, 
and  that  this  was  not  just  to  the  cause. 

"  See  here,  boy,"  the  picture-taker  replied, 
"  when  you  tap  a  cider  barrel  you've  got  to  take 
things  as  they  run  at  the  bung-hole.  I  knew  an 
old  farmer  at  Simmons'  Hill  who  lived  on  cider, 
till  he  was  nearly  choked  to  death  with  vinegar. 
That  ended  him,  so  far  as  cider  was  concerned. 
I  think  his  name  was  Simmons.  Yes  'twas. 
The  place  was  named  for  his  grandfather.  If 
the  vinegar's  all  out  of  your  cider  barrel  better 
knock  in  the  head  and  use  the  staves  for  firewood." 

In  this  form  came  the  father's  suggestion  to  the 
son  that,  until  a  different  course  seemed  imperative, 
Dick  Richards  must  be  blotted  from  his  memory. 
As  the  negro  vanished  from  Smithboro  from  that 
day  Win  did  not  have  to  be  urged  further  to  act 
on  the  parental  injunction.  Whither  Dick  had 
gone  no  one  knew.  As  the  actual  cause  of  his 
disappearance  remained  unrevealed  by  those  con 
nected  with  it,  the  curiosity  aroused  thereby  took 


134  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

many  fanciful  shapes.  When  a  report  gained 
credence  in  the  village,  and  was  much  discussed, 
that  Richards  had  been  kidnapped  while  on  an 
errand  of  mercy  down  the  valley,  Win  thought  it 
wise  to  unfold  the  truth  to  Mr.  Gerritt  in  order  to 
allow  the  falsehood  to  be  denied.  This  the 
venerable  liberator  did  while  he  blushed  for  the 
cause. 

Richards's  mysterious  departure  would  have 
occasioned  much  more  speculation  at  any  other 
time.  As  it  was  it  went  out  of  mind  on  account  of 
the  immediate  approach  of  the  Liberty  Convention 
to  be  held  in  Syracuse,  to  attend  which  Abolitionists 
from  far  and  near  were  now  engaged  in  making 
noisy  preparations.  It  was  designed  to  make  this 
gathering  of  the  anti-slavery  hosts  a  mighty 
protest  against  the  vicious  law.  Of  course  Peter 
Gerritt  was  to  be  present,  and  as  Mr.  Disbrow 
and  his  wife,  who  had  decided  to  join  him,  were  to 
take  Bess,  Win  came  to  the  conclusion  that  stern 
duty  also  called  him  hence.  Win  and  Bess, 
although  frequently  in  each  other's  company  during 
the  week  succeeding  the  episode  at  the  brookside, 
had  not  been  able  to  throw  off  the  constraint 
which  had  taken  hold  of  them  both  as  a  conse 
quence  of  it. 


THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Impelled  by  his  father's  advice  to  open  his  heai 
to  the  girl,  Win  had  once  or  twice  essayed  to  speak 
to  Bess  on  the  subject,  but  she  recoiled  from  his 
timid  advances,  herself  fearful  that  no  good  could 
come  of  the  discussion.  At  the  same  time  she 
gave  Win  to  understand,  in  that  indefinable  way 
women  have,  that  her  diffidence  in  this  regard  was 
not  to  be  construed  as  a  rebuff.  It  is  a  serious 
question  whether  Win  would  have  been  rebuffed 
under  any  circumstances.  He  was  by  no  means 
sure  in  his  mind  that  Dick  had  gone  for  good. 
What  if  the  negro  should  return  to  plague  them  ? 
What  might  not  a  man  do  as  desperate  as  he  had 
shown  himself  to  be  ?  With  Bess's  consent  or 
without  it,  therefore,  he  had  resolved  to  guard  her 
against  all  danger.  All  the  chivalry  in  his  make 
up  had  been  stirred  and  he  assumed  a  knightly 
trust. 

"  I'm  rejoiced  to  know  that  you  are  to  be  with 
us  in  Syracuse,"  Mr.  Gerritt  said  to  Win.  "We 
shall  there  put  into  plain  words  what  the  free  North 
has  been  saying  in  overt  acts  since  the  enactment  of 
this  devil-prompted  law.  I  am  hopeful  that  in  the 
character  of  its  members,  and  in  the  importance  of 
its  action,  this  convention  of  ours  shall  take  rank  in 
history  second  only  to  the  Continental  Congress 


136  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

which  met  in  Philadelphia  July  4,  1776.     Traitors 
those  men  were  called  ;  traitors  they  call  us." 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  young  doctor,  "  I  shall  never 
forget  those  words  of  Webster's.  "  '  Traitors,  trait 
ors,  traitors,'  were  his  words." 

"  And  he  said  that  this  nefarious  law  of  theirs 
should  be  enforced  in  the  midst  of  an  anti-slavery 
convention — this  convention  at  Syracuse  is  it." 

"  Those  were  his  words,  Mr.  Gerritt,"  Win  said, 
his  recollection  of  Webster's  philippic  making  his 
blood  tingle  anew. 

"  His  words,  yes  his  words,"  the  great  liberator 
murmured,  his  voice  dropping  to  an  almost  inaudi 
ble  whisper.  "  We  shall  see  if  there  was  the  spirit 
of  prophecy  in  them." 

And  he  reverently  looked  heavenward,  as  if  a 
scroll  to  other  eyes  unseen  lay  open  there  before 
him. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  THAT'S  him — that  man  shaking  hands  with  the 
nigger." 

"  They're  all  doin'  that.     Which  one  ?  " 

"  Now  you  can  see  him — that  man  with  the  flow 
ing  beard  and  the  Byron  collar." 

"That's  Peter  Gerritt,  eh?  Well,  he  don't  look 
it,  does  he  ?  He  don't  look  as  if  he'd  hurt  a  fly  ?  " 

"And  he  wouldn't  if  it  were  a  black  fly  !  That's 
him  though.  Why  he's  spent  more  money  helpin' 
to  run  off  niggers  than  you  and  me  '11  ever  see  in 
dreams.  That's  old  Peter  Gerritt  of  Smithboro. 
Queerest  old  cock  in  the  world.  Got  a  little  church 
of  his  own  'cause  he  couldn't  believe  in  hell-fire  and 
infernal  damnation.  Got  a  big  house  down  there 
that's  a  reg'lar  /wtel — everybody  comes  and  goes 
and  don't  pay  a  cent.  Niggers  and  all.  All  the 
money  his  father  made  tradin'  with  the  Injuns  in 
furs — pardner  of  old  Jacob  Astor — he  just  shovelled 
out  doin'  good.  One  day  the  poor-house  stared 
him  in  the  face.  Then  he  up  and  borrowed  two 


138  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  from  old  Astor, 
with  security,  and  got  rich  again.  Got  more  land 
than  he  can  shake  a  stick  at.  Holds  mortgages  on 
half  the  farms  for  twenty  miles  round  Smithboro. 
Never's  been  known  to  foreclose  one.  Kind  of 
angel  dropped  down  from  heaven.  Wrong  head, 
good  heart,  like  angels  in  gineral." 

Mr.  Gerritt  was  holding  a  levee  on  the  sidewalk 
outside  the  meeting  place  of  the  Liberty  Conven 
tion.  All  urbanity,  all  kindliness,  he  was  greeting 
the  people  who  flocked  to  his  side.  Scores  of  negroes 
were  struggling  forward,  bareheaded  and  beaming 
with  smiles,  to  clasp  his  hand.  In  their  black  faces 
was  joy  unspeakable  that  they  were  within  arm's 
reach  of  their  beloved  deliverer.  Otherwise  it  was  a 
crowd  of  sober  men  and  women — zealots  no  doubt, 
fanatics  if  you  will — from  whose  lips  apparently  the 
last  ripple  of  laughter  had  died  out  in  a  wail  for 
their  stricken  fellow-men.  They  seemed  to  be 
marked  among  men  as  if  the  cause  they  served  had 
seared  their  breasts  with  the  cross  of  the  crusade. 
Not  being  in  dress  distinctive,  nor  in  their  genera 
tion  apart  by  reason  of  their  age,  the  colour  of  their 
hair,  or  the  cut  of  their  beards,  as  one  tells  a  priest 
by  his  tonsure  and  a  Quaker  by  his  hat,  yet  here 
we  had  a  selection  of  men  and  women  as  unmis- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  139 

takably  Abolitionists  as  if  their  hearts  had  been 
laid  bare  for  vulgar  perusal. 

"  You  can  tell  'em  as  far  as  you  can  see  'em," 
was  the  remark  of  a  bystander,  safely  removed  from 
peril  of  contamination,  at  the  opposite  side  of  the 
street.  He  it  was  who  had  drawn  the  rapid  sketch 
of  Peter  Gerritt  just  set  down. 

"  How  can  you  tell  ?  "  his  companion  inquired. 

"  By  the  cut  of  their  jib."  was  the  flippant  reply, 
and  indeed  it  was  not  a  description  at  random  of 
prevalent  conditions  among  the  Abolitionists.  Pos 
sibly  the  speaker  was  not  so  much  unlike  those  on 
whom  he  was  passing  comment  that,  had  he 
plunged  into  the  throng,  he  would  not  have  been 
lost  in  it,  one  among  many.  But  to  have  thrown 
together  those  who  stood  with  him,  bystanders  like 
himself,  and  those  others  across  the  way,  would 
have  undeniably  changed  the  aspect  in  the  gather 
ing  to  the  least  discerning  eye. 

Syracuse  was  not  having  its  first  look  at  a  Liberty 
convention.  The  Abolition  movement  was  an  old 
story  there.  This  convention,  however,  promised 
to  sound  a  new  note  of  alarm.  Coming  as  it  did 
at  the  end  of  a  summer  which  stood  out  boldly  as 
the  red-letter  period  in  the  history  of  the  anti- 
slavery  cause,  and  six  months  after  Daniel  Web- 


140  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

star's  thunderous  challenge  to  the  nullifiers  to  do 
their  worst,  Abolition  seemed  destined  on  this  first 
day  of  October,  1851,  to  reach  its  high  tide.  The 
Abolitionists  looked  to  the  convention  to  do  some 
thing  that  would  fire  the  North  with  long-delayed 
courage  to  demand  the  repeal  of  the  Fugitive  Slave 
Law.  On  the  part  of  those  whose  sympathies  were 
with  the  law,  good  or  bad,  defiance  of  its  object  had 
been  so  audacious,  so  successful,  so  general,  that 
they  felt  no  bounds  of  common  sense  would  hold 
the  convention.  What  new  crimes  would  be  pro 
jected,  as  some  put  it,  what  new  indiscretion  would 
be  committed,  according  to  the  softer  speech  of 
others,  no  one  dared  predict.  The  young  city  came 
to  the  fateful  day  of  the  convention,  therefore, 
under  a  heavy  pressure. 

Win  Disbrow  had  been  about  the  world  enough 
to  know  that  public  conditions  in  Syracuse  were 
not  normal.  More  people  were  abroad  in  the 
streets  than  seemed  to  accord  with  good  order,  and 
though  Bess  and  Mrs.  Disbrow,  who  were  in  his 
company  on  the  way  to  the  meeting  place,  were 
satisfied  with  the  statement  that  an  agricultural 
fair  had  thronged  the  streets,  the  young  doctor 
felt  called  upon  to  advise  the  ladies  to  keep  out  of 
the  crowds. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  141 

"  Slavery  probably  has  more  friends  than  ene 
mies  here,"  he  said,  "  and  no  one  knows  to  what  ex 
cesses  our  enemies  may  go  should  the  conven 
tion  take  advanced  ground,  as  Mr.  Gerritt  is 
quite  determined  it  shall.  I  saw  an  anti-slavery 
meeting  stoned  out  of  the  building  in  Albany.  I 
don't  place  much  confidence  in  the  righteousness  of 
our  cause.  Not  far  from  this  very  spot  I  heard  a 
thousand  men  yell  like  demons  their  approval  of 
what  Daniel  Webster  said.  Those  who  disap 
proved,  like  myself,  were  stunned  by  the  fearful- 
ness  of  his  words.  Only  remember  we  are  not  in 
Smithboro." 

Win's  warning  was  not  pitched  to  the  calm  tem 
per  of  the  convention.  It  proceeded  about  its 
business  under  a  solemn  inspiration  that  never  even 
verged  on  clamour  or  excitement.  No  unruly 
element  darkened  the  convention's  doors  to  break 
in  upon  its  deliberations,  a  device  of  the  enemy  that 
had  been  seriously  feared.  Had  these  honest  folk, 
called  as  they  believed  by  a  divine  summons,  over 
estimated  the  importance  of  their  utterances? 
Would  the  protest  of  this  band  of  patriots  be  car 
ried  no  farther  than  the  defiant  sound  of  that  meet 
ing-house  bell  in  Smithboro,  tolled  by  a  runaway 
slave  ?  Did  no  power  on  earth  exist  to  kindle  into 


142  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

flame  the  great  moral  forces  of  the  Union  ?  Did 
patriotism  lie  perdue? 

Distant  from  the  meeting  place  of  the  convention 
a  half  hour's  walk,  Jerry  McHenry's  muscular  arm 
plied  the  cooper's  hammer  among  a  wilderness  of 
staves  and  hoops.  No  hand  in  the  shop  was  cun- 
ninger  at  the  draw-shave,  no  stroke  stouter  at  the 
wedging.  His  face  was  black,  but  he  had  proved 
himself  worthy  of  his  hire. 

A  man  stepped  through  the  open  door  of  the  shop 
and  leaned  against  a  salt  barrel  that  had  just  been 
rolled  from  under  Jerry's  skillful  hand.  He  said 
he  was  looking  for  a  man  charged  with  thievery. 

"  I  want  you,  Jerry  McHenry,"  the  newcomer 
said  almost  in  the  same  breath. 

The  negro  knew  what  this  meant.  He  was  a 
runaway  slave,  and  to  such  as  he  death  alone  was 
security.  Sleeping  or  waking  his  keen  ear  listened 
always  for  the  yelp  of  the  bloodhound.  All  he 
asked  had  been  a  fair  start.  This  time  he  was  at 
bay  with  no  way  open  for  freedom.  His  wrists  in 
irons  he  was  led  through  the  streets  by  an  officer 
of  the  Federal  law,  a  shambling,  despairing,  hunted 
slave,  in  whose  shackled  limbs  the  Government  of 
the  United  States  emblazoned  its  recognition  of 
slavery  as  an  institution,  and  the  right  of  every 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  143 

slave-holder  to  seize  his  human  chattel  wherever 
found.  On  this  picture  the  city  of  Syracuse  gazed 
this  day,  in  the  year  of  grace,  1851. 

Daniel  Webster's  prophecy  was  coming  true  ! 

At  the  heels  of  this  procession  of  misery,  ere  it 
reached  its  destination  where  Justice  sat,  there 
trailed  a  brawling  mass  of  men,  some  outlaws  them 
selves,  boisterous  in  crying  for  the  law's  vindica 
tion  ;  others  like  the  mob  at  Calvary,  knowing  no 
mercy  ;  and  others  still,  helpless  in  their  rage,  hurl 
ing  anathemas  on  the  bitter  cruelty  of  the  spectacle. 
Soon  enough  the  cry  went  up  that  a  slave  had  been 
taken  and  through  the  town  the  news  went  hum 
ming  from  mouth  to  mouth. 

"  Down  with  nigger  worship  ! "  was  the  acclaim 
of  the  upholders  of  the  law. 

"  The  North  against  the  South  !  "  was  the  answer 
ing  cry  of  an  Abolitionist,  who,  better  than  he 
knew,  was  looking  far  into  the  future. 

Into  as  many  forms  as  these  concrete  conceptions 
of  the  situation  could  be  translated  by  resort  to 
cant  phrase,  or  rhetorical  hyperbole,  an  excited, 
restless,  vociferous  multitude  poured  its  feelings. 
The  slave  had  been  conducted  in  safety  to  the 
office  of  the  United  States  Commissioner,  and  was 
there  held  as  prisoner,  but  that  he  would  be  left  to 
his  fate  no  one  for  an  instant  believed. 


144  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

The  Liberty  Convention  had  suspended  business 
on  the  instant  that  a  warning  word  had  been 
brought  to  it.  The  tidings  whispered  into  a  man's 
ear  at  the  rear  of  the  hall  gathered  the  force  of  a 
storm  as  it  rolled  over  the  assembled  delegates  and 
was  delivered  to  the  chairman's  platform  in  a 
whirlwind  of  voices. 

Mr.  Gerritt  was  on  his  feet,  well  in  front,  like  a 
flash. 

"  Deeds,  not  words,  good  friends,"  he  said,  his 
right  arm  raised,  and  his  finger  pointing  through 
the  open  doors,  already  clogged  with  volunteers  for 
the  rescue.  "  We  go  there  !  "  was  all  the  great  lib 
erator  added  to  his  simple  call  to  arms. 

As  for  the  moment  he  stood  there  among  his 
compatriots,  Peter  Gerritt,  his  jaws  set,  his  eyes  as 
luminous  as  a  youth's,  his  under.-. i/e  lifting  to  the 
majesty  of  the  occasion,  no  sculptured  allegory  of 
the  higher  law  could  have  been  more  nobly  con 
ceived.  No  chisel  has  made  enduring  that  heroic 
attitude  in  this  supreme  hour  of  the  Nation's  peril, 
but  it  lives  in  memory  a  glorious  figure,  more  im 
perishable  than  either  granite  or  bronze. 

Through  the  now  agitated  city  to  the  slave's 
place  of  confinement  the  whole  convention  followed 
Mr.  Gerritt.  As  his  identity,  and  that  of  others  as  em- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  145 

inent  in  the  cause,  became  known  on  the  streets  there 
were  counter  outbursts  of  devotion  and  of  derision. 
Win  Disbrow,  by  dint  of  earnest  persuasion,  induced 
the  ladies  to  drop  out  of  the  throng,  to  await  his 
coming  at  the  house  of  a  friend.  This  course  they 
were  convinced  it  was  best  to  follow,  as  their  ears 
were  already  being  assailed  by  the  ribaldry  of  the 
streets.  As  they  passed  along,  nevertheless,  Mr. 
Gerritt,  Mr.  Disbrow,  and  the  rest  who  led  the  way, 
became  assured  that  if  the  populace  was  divided  in 
sentiment,  its  greater  part  condemned  the  seizure 
of  the  slave.  Outside  the  Commissioner's  office 
they  were  hailed  with  a  loud  shout,  in  which,  while 
hisses  and  groans  mingled,  the  cry  of  Liberty  pre 
vailed. 

"  Let  Peter  Gerritt  pass,"  Mr.  Disbrow  said,  as 
they  came  to  a  forced  halt  at  the  outer  edge  of 
the  solid  block  of  men  who  packed  the  street  from 
curb  to  curb.  At  the  word  the  crowd  split  as  if  a 
wedge  had  been  driven  into  it,  and  between  the 
swaying  masses  at  either  side  the  famous  Abolition 
ist  and  his  immediate  companions  walked  almost 
unmolested  to  the  threshold  of  the  Commissioner's 
office. 

"  As  Moses  passed  the  Red  Sea,"  the  preacher 
said  exultantly  over  this  mark  of  Peter  Gerritt's 


146  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

hold  on  the  people.  It  was  indeed  an  inspiring 
spectacle.  Arms  stretched  forth  to  touch  the  great 
liberator  in  sudden  displays  of  affection,  or  more 
reverently  to  take  up  the  hem  of  his  garment. 

"  If  you  want  help  call  on  us,"  shouted  a  voice 
from  the  middle  of  the  crowd,  "  and  we'll  come.' 
Won't  we  boys?  " 

A  wild  huzza  was  the  welcome  answer. 

Mr.  Gerritt  turned  and  lifted  his  hat.  As  if  with 
one  impulse  a  thousand  hoarse  voices  joined  in  the 
warning,  "  Look  out ! "  as  a  heavy  box  dropped 
straight  down  from  an  upper  window  of  the  be 
sieged  building.  Mr.  Gerritt's  crown  of  silver  hair, 
tossing  in  an  October  wind,  was  right  in  its  path. 
It  was  going  like  an  arrow  to  the  mark.  It  would 
have  struck  this  lover  of  liberty  to  the  earth  had 
not  two  strong  hands  reached  out,  as  the  owner  of 
them  leaped  into  the  space,  and  with  a  forward 
lunge  diverted  the  course  of  the  falling  missile.  It 
bounded  edgewise  in  amongst  the  weaving  mass, 
leaving  a  trail  of  blood  behind  as  it  dropped  where 
the  crowd  waved  back  out  of  its  way. 

"  Get  inside — they'll  murder  you,"  Win  said,  as 
he  pushed  open  the  door,  and  fairly  forced  Mr. 
Gerritt  over  the  sill.  This  done,  he  took  a  second 
to  speak  to  the  hero  of  the  moment,  whose  presence 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  147 

of  mind  had  stilled  a  shudder  in  a  thousand  hearts. 
Mr.  Gerritt  would  have  remained  to  shake  the  man's 
hand  had  not  Win  barred  the  way  lest  another  at 
tempt  at  murder  might  succeed.  Without  looking- 
for  time  was  precious — Win  said  : 

"  You're  a  brave  man.     What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Dick  Richards,  sah,"  was  the  reply. 

At  that  instant  a  convulsive  movement  of  the 
people  who  were  flattened  against  the  entrance 
carried  Win  into  the  office  behind  Mr.  Gerritt  and 
Mr.  Disbrow,  and  once  in  the  door  was  forced  shut. 
Outside  Win  could  hear  the  negro  being  lustily 
cheered. 

Peter  Gerritt  was  defying  the  Government  of  the 
United  States  to  meet  the  question  its  minions  had 
raised. 

"Theft!"  he  fairly  shrieked  in  the  ears  of  the 
Government's  court  of  justice.  "  Theft !  Has  it 
come  to  this?  The  United  States  playing  the 
sneak!  What  law  is  this  you  dare  not  enforce  un 
der  its  rightful  name  ?  Why  do  you  drag  a  sweating 
workman  from  his  bench  because  he  is  a  fugitive 
slave,  and,  to  save  yourself  and  the  Government  you 
serve  from  ignominy,  charge  him  with  petit  lar 
ceny?  Why?  Shall  I  tell  you?  Do  you  hear 
those  bells  sounding  the  dread  alarm?  Why  did 


148  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

you  take  refuge  in  this  flimsy  pretext  ?  Because 
those  bells,  silent  or  chiming,  proclaim  the  iniquity, 
the  viciousness,  the  failure — yes,  failure — of  this 
devil-made  law  of  yours." 

It  was  indeed  true.  From  steeple  to  steeple 
throughout  the  city  the  alarm  was  sounding.  The 
tremulous  pulsations  electrified  the  air  as  if  the 
mystic  currents  of  the  poles  had  been  marshalled  by 
the  hosts  of  Freedom.  If  there  was  a  laggard  in  this 
hour  it  was  not  intended  that  he  should  sleep  un 
warned.  To  this  extremity  had  the  friends  of  the 
slave  resorted. 

"  Theft,  I  say,"  the  undismayed  champion  of 
Abolition  continued.  "  Theft  of  what  ?  Theft  of 
the  right  to  live  and  have  his  being,  the  right  to  toil 
for  his  daily  bread,  and,  having  earned  it,  the  right 
honestly  to  be  paid  for  his  work.  If  this  is  the 
theft  of  which  this  man  stands  accused,  I  shall  meet 
the  charge  when  the  time  comes.  Now,  here,  I 
maintain  that  Jerry  McHenry  having  been  arrested 
by  the  officers  of  this  court,  on  the  pretence  of  hav 
ing  committed  a  theft,  you,  a  Commissioner  of  the 
United  States,  cannot  try  him.  This  is  not  a  court 
of  competent  jurisdiction." 

Whether  this  plea  prevailed  on  account  of  the 
bungling  of  the  marshal  who  took  the  slave  in  cus- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  149 

tody,  or  a  fear  that  the  ringing  of  the  bells  portend 
ed  more  evil  than  yet  appeared,  whatever  it  was,  the 
court  hurriedly  put  off  the  hearing.  The  news  scat 
tered  the  people  who  had  thronged  the  adjacent 
streets  and  massed  themselves  against  the  place  of 
trial.  Twenty  men,  none  sooner  than  Mr.  Gerritt, 
asked  the  privilege  of  going  on  the  slave's  bail  bond. 
The  law,  the  Commissioner  said,  gave  him  no  alter 
native  than  to  deny  this  request.  Under  heavy 
guard  Jerry  McHenry,  manacled  like  a  criminal,  sat 
beside  his  new-found  friend.  Others  as  steadfast, 
once  the  jam  of  men  had  been  relieved,  came  to 
declare  themselves. 

"  I  am  Peter  Gerritt,  and  no  harm  shall  come  to 
you,"  the  sage  of  Smithboro  had  whispered  in 
Jerry's  ear,  when  first  he  entered  the  room.  "  No 
harm  shall  come  to  you,"  he  repeated  after  he  had 
delivered  his  pica.  The  poor  fellow,  peering  about 
him,  saw  only  the  faces  of  friends.  There  were  no 
black  looks.  His  eye  was  ranging  above  the  muz 
zles  of  the  marshals'  pistols. 

"  I  am  a  strong  man,"  the  slave  said  leaning  close 
to  Mr.  Gerritt.  "  If  dey  be  friends  outside,  I  kin 
fight  ma  way  clean  away." 

Mr.  Gerritt  frowned  on  this  expedient. 

"  Not  yet,"  he  advised.  "  As  a  last  resort,  yes, 
but  wait." 


150  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Bolder  spirits  hovered  near,  young  men  who 
loved  adventure,  older  men  who  scoffed  at  caution. 
Such  as  they  touch  elbows  in  every  battle-line. 
They  fire  Ephesian  domes  and  outlive  in  fame  the 
pious  fools  who  rear  them.  On  their  breasts  glisten 
the  Victoria  crosses.  To  such  as  they,  the  caged 
slave,  balked  as  he  thought  of  the  right  to  achieve 
his  own  freedom,  baited  by  a  heartless,  tyrannous 
law,  bent  a  listening  ear.  A  hurried  word,  a  sudden 
crush  of  men  at  the  door,  an  onslaught  inside  it, 
which  tumbled  the  guards  to  the  floor  as  if  they 
were  lay  figures,  and  a  black  man  in  irons  was  cry 
ing  quits  to  the  majesty  of  the  law. 

The  escape  had  been  well  planned,  and  with  wits 
sharpened  by  long  calculation  of  just  such  chances, 
Jerry  did  not  lose  a  second's  time,  did  not  make  a 
false  step.  He  was  out  into  the  long  shadows  of 
the  ending  day,  running  for  his  life,  before  the  guards 
had  scrambled  to  their  feet.  The  confusion  of  the 
room  was  being  worse  confounded  by  the  dare-devils 
who  had  set  the  slave  free.  They  feinted  this  way 
and  that  to  stop  the  chase  until  with  drawn  pistols 
the  officers  forced  the  blockade. 

It  was  the  city's  supper  hour  and  through  streets 
well-nigh  empty  the  chase  was  taken  up.  A  half 
hour  earlier  and  the  runaway  could  have  been  hidden 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  151 

by  his  friends  in  the  thick  of  the  crowd.  As  it 
was,  a  fleeing  negro,  on  whose  swinging  arms  the 
gyves  rattled  like  an  alarm  bell,  could  not  run  far 
undetected.  He  could  not  tell  friends  from  foes 
when  fresh  runners  joined  him.  He  was  weighed 
down  with  his  chains  and  out  of  breath.  At  last, 
a  half-mile  away,  he  stumbled  and  fell.  Poor 
devil !  Those  nearest  laid  heavy  hands  on  him. 
They  were  his  foes.  Panting  like  a  deer  running 
before  hounds  Jerry  had  been  caught.  With  their 
knees  pressed  down  on  his  breast,  his  captors, 
unlicensed  upholders  of  the  law  he  was  flying  from, 
pinioned  the  slave  until  the  guards  came  up  with 
him.  A  little  crowd  quickly  gathered.  It  spoke 
in  two  voices — one  of  shame — one  of  approbation. 

"  I'se  goin'  back  dead,  not  alive,"  Jerry  managed 
to  cry  out,  as  with  a  superhuman  effort  he  began 
again  the  unequal  struggle  for  freedom.  The  guards 
were  now  on  him  in  full  force.  Three  or  four  men 
out  of  the  crowd  were  bold  enough  to  rush  to  the 
slave's  aid,  but  they  were  beaten  back  with  the  butts 
of  the  pistols,  and  knowing  lawful  retaliation  would 
not  end  here,  if  the  capture  of  Jerry  was  long  re 
sisted,  they  turned  their  efforts  to  saving  the  prisoner 
from  further  harm.  So  he  was  dragged  back  to 
duress  tattered  and  bleeding,  part  of  the  way  like  a 


152  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

carcass  on  a  truck  which  had  been  called  into  service 
to  hasten  execution  of  the  law. 

Was  slavery  triumphant  ?  Was  Daniel  Webster 
its  prophet  ? 

This  time  the  police  office  was  chosen  as  a  strong 
hold.  The  law  was  wearing  a  blanched  cheek.  Out 
of  an  October  night  the  people  poured  to  turn  it 
whiter  still.  They  were  saying  things  now  that  had 
been  left  unsaid  before.  Treason,  as  Webster  de 
fined  it,  was  in  the  air.  Jerry's  adventure  had  set 
the  people  thinking.  The  city  was  in  an  uproar. 
Collecting  in  the  open  square  on  which  the  police 
office  fronted  was  an  army  come  to  the  rescue.  It 
looked  black  and  ugly  in  the  sickly  light  of  a  half- 
dozen  street  lamps.  It  surged  backward  and  for 
ward  as  if  it  were  a  storm  cloud  in  a  hurricane,  and 
out  of  its  restless  depths  there  came  ever  and  anon 
a  dull  roar  like  that  of  thunder. 

"  Webster  lied,"  was  started  as  a  shibboleth  and 
it  suited  the  popular  fancy  so  well,  it  was  heard  in 
chorus  a  hundred  times  repeated. 

"  So  be  it,"  was  Peter  Gerritt's  declaration  as  he 
passed  within  earshot  of  the  clamourous  multitude. 
There  had  been  a  hasty  summons  of  the  Abolitionist 
leaders  soon  after  the  town  began  to  ring  with  the 
news  of  the  slave's  escape  and  recapture.  A 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  153 

council  had  been  called  to  decide  what  should  be 
done. 

"  Desperate  diseases  require  desperate  remedies," 
Mr.  Gerritt  said,  as  with  Mr.  Disbrow  and  the  young 
doctor  he  hurried  to  the  rendezvous.  This  was  the 
cue  to  action.  It  was  to  be  a  rescue  by  force  of 
numbers.  To  this  conclusion  the  councillors  ar 
rived,  having  in  secret  conference  taken  measure  of 
the  chances  and  counted  the  cost.  Thirty  valiant 
gentlemen,  all  known  to  each  other  and  to  none 
other,  locked  themselves  in  a  law  office  to  plan  the 
rescue.  By  mutual  trust,  by  their  common  culpa 
bility,  they  were  bound  together.  In  the  eye  of  the 
law  they  were  no  better  than  thieves.  The  exploit 
they  were  hazarding  was  expressly  defined  as  a  crime 
punishable  by  fine  and  imprisonment;  but  this  was 
no  bar  to  their  high  resolve;  taken,  too,  in  face  of 
the  assurance  that  if  they  would  stay  their  hands 
the  negro  would  on  the  morrow  be  let  go  under 
some  pretext  or  other. 

"  They  admit  that  they  have  gone  too  far,  that 
the  arrest  was  ill-timed,  and  that  the  moral  effect 
of  a  rescue  would  be  most  disastrous,"  was  the  word 
brought  to  the  council. 

But  the  council  would  not  budge.  Its  feet  were 
planted  on  the  rock. 


154  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"The  moral  effect  is  the  keynote,"  was  the  re 
sponse  to  this  proffer  of  amnesty. 

Daniel  Webster  had  lied,  and  it  was  proposed  to 
let  the  world  know  it.  Jerry  McHenry  was  to  be  set 
free.  As  one  by  one  the  thirty  conspirators  gave 
assent  to  this  decision,  a  few  hurried  scratches  of 
the  pen  made  the  record,  and  this  a  moment  after 
was  turned  into  ashes,  in  the  candle's  flame. 

"  We  make  history,  but  do  not  write  it,"  Mr.  Ger- 
ritt  said. 

So  it  happens  that  from  first  to  last  the  absorb 
ing  story  of  these  events  is  now  a  transcription  of 
rusted  memories.  It  was  no  part  of  the  great  plan 
of  the  Underground  Railroad  to  take  account  of 
posterity.  Its  first  rule  was  to  leave  behind  no 
tell-tale  messages. 

"  What  the  end  of  this  may  be,  God  alone  fore 
sees,"  one  of  the  unnamed  declared.  "  With  our 
eyes  wide  open  we  are  walking  into  a  breech.  We 
are  resolving  to  break  the  law  of  the  land,  and  are 
to  use  as  a  weapon  an  undisciplined,  heedless  force. 
In  it  there  may  be,  aye,  there  surely  is,  a  lawless 
spirit  not  amenable  to  control.  Who  can  tell  what 
a  mob  will  do  ?  Blood  may  flow,  our  own  blood  as 
likely  as  not,  if  the  officers  of  the  law  deal  with  us, 
as,  God  help  us,  they  are  authorized  to  do  by  this 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  155 

law  we  would  stamp  beneath  the  soles  of  our  feet. 
But  we  have  put  our  hands  to  the  plough  ;  let  us  not 
turn  back.  To  the  rescue  !  " 

Long  before  this  effort  to  organize  a  leadership 
for  the  delivery  of  Jerry  had  borne  fruit,  the  mob 
would  have  taken  the  job  into  its  own  hands,  had 
not  trusted  men  been  despatched  to  the  scene  to 
hold  the  excited  people  in  check.  From  the  elevated 
platform  which  formed  the  approach  to  the  police 
office,  citizens  they  knew  stayed  the  attack  by  word 
of  mouth.  It  was  a  pretty  trick  in  oratory  that  no 
one  misunderstood.  More  than  once  the  delay 
wore  out  the  patience  of  the  hotter  heads,  and  a  for 
ward  movement  would  start  from  this  or  that  spot 
only  to  be  halted  by  a  cry  of  caution.  The  sheriff 
of  the  county  came  to  warn  the  speakers  that  they 
were  inciting  a  riot,  and  that  unless  they  desisted 
he  woukl  call  out  the  militia, — only  to  be  hustled 
like  a  man  of  straw  to  the  fringe  of  the  crowd  under 
an  avalanche  of  ridicule.  It  was  too  well  known 
that  the  soldiers,  being  an  arm  of  the  State  govern 
ment,  would  not  come  out  to  assist  in  the  enforce 
ment  of  a  Federal  law.  Their  commandant  had 
said  so,  and  was  present  now  to  reiterate  that  de 
cision.  He  did  not  have  to  proclaim  it  from  the 
house-tops  to  have  it  known.  His  casual  remark 


156  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

that  he  hoped  the  militia  could  find  better  business 
than  "hunting  niggers"  was  passed  along  until 
trumpet-tongued  it  sounded  in  every  ear  in  that 
restless  throng. 

"  Hats  off  to  the  soldier  boys !  "  cried  a  man  with 
a  fog-horn  voice,  tossing  his  cap  in  the  air.  It  was 
a  happy  thought  that  bared  a  thousand  heads  in  a 
jiffy. 

"  Hats  off  !     Hats  off!  "  yelled  everybody. 

The  hats  waved  over  the  sea  of  faces  like  one 
great  plume.  Some  wight  in  the  heart  of  the 
crowd  did  not  doff  his  K.ossuth  quick  enough.  It 
was  knocked  from  his  head  with  a  smart  whack  of  a 
walking-stick.  Then  one  after  another  the  covered 
heads  were  put  under  tribute  to  the  spirit  of  fun 
that  now  broke  loose  all  over  the  crowd.  The 
strain  was  relieved,  and  this  mob  in  leash  was  in 
stantly  at  play  as  if  it  were  a  holiday  that  had 
massed  it.  Laughter  overwhelmed  the  impassioned 
periods  of  the  orator  who  stalked  the  platform. 
Stock  still  he  stood  wondering  what  had  happened 
to  have  brought  about  the  transformation. 

Win  was  at  the  orator's  side  as  mystified  as  he. 
A  doctor  should  have  been  quicker  to  catch  the 
spirit  of  the  scene.  The  night  before  a  battle  is 
often  the  merriest  in  camp.  A  student  of  his  kind. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  157 

Win  should  have  known  this.  But  he  was  watch 
ing  for  the  signal  of  attack.  To  him  had  been 
assigned  this  duty,  and  he  had  taken  a  station  on 
the  platform,  from  which  the  whole  square  could  be 
surveyed. 

The  crowd  still  rocked  in  laughter.  The  orator 
was  splitting  his  throat  in  a  vain  attempt  to  still 
the  uproar.  Through  the  half-light  of  the  October 
dusk  Win  saw  the  flutter  of  a  white  handkerchief 
at  the  far  end  of  the  crowd,  and,  plucking  the  dis 
comfited  speaker  by  the  sleeve,  he  struggled  for 
ward,  and  shouted  with  all  the  strength  that  was  in 
him : 

"There  they  come!  There  they  come!  Make 
room  for  Liberty  !  " 

Only  those  who  stood  immediately  beneath  the 
platform  heard  the  command.  As  well  might  Win 
have  lisped  it  to  the  bellowing  sea.  Again  he 
lifted  up  his  voice  : 

"  Make  way  for  Liberty  !  " 

There  was  a  faint  echo  of  his  words  in  front.  As 
best  they  could  those  who  stood  there  turned  to 
see  at  what  the  author  of  the  cry  was  frantically 
pointing.  The  laughter  died  out,  and  the  waving  of 
hats  ceased.  The  people  had  turned  their  backs 
on  the  platform,  and  were  lurching  towards  the  outer 


158  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

circle  of  the  crowd,  to  the  inspiring  cry  of  "  Make 
way  for  liberty  !  "  Then,  once  more,  as  had  hap 
pened  earlier  in  the  day,  there  was  a  rift  in  the  black 
mass,  and,  as  on  either  side  the  people  swayed  back 
ward,  through  a  straight  path  to  the  platform  passed 
a  band  of  rescuers.  But  this  time  they  came  to 
conquer,  not  to  plead.  For  arms  they  carried  rods 
of  iron,  levied  upon  at  a  neighbouring  store,  and 
long  lengths  of  scantling,  right  at  hand  in  a  nearby 
lumber-yard.  One  or  two,  more  daring  than  their 
companions,  flourished  firearms.  The  onslaught 
was  led  by  chosen  men,  but  it  had  gathered  force 
on  the  way,  and  by  the  time  its  signal  reached  the 
platform,  where  Win  stood  guard,  it  looked  formi 
dable  enough  to  wreck  Jerry's  prison. 

Win  kept  his  post  only  a  brief  space  after  the  pur 
pose  of  the  mob  became  apparent.  There  was  a  sud 
den  sally  from  the  door  of  the  police  office,  the  effect 
of  which  was  to  clear  the  platform  of  every  occupant, 
many  of  whom  were  rudely  tumbled  over  the  railings 
on  the  heads  of  the  people  below.  This  having 
been  accomplished  the  officers  retreated  to  cover,  as 
was  indeed  the  better  part  of  valour,  for  the  besieg 
ing  party  was  coming  on  with  a  desperate  mission 
to  fulfil.  A  shower  of  stones  went  rattling  through 
the  window-glass  as  the  policemen  disappeared. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  159 

Through  a  broken  pane  a  revolver  shot  was  fired 
from  inside,  and  the  crowd  surged  back  a  few  feet 
in  a  quiver  of  alarm. 

An  answering  shot  came  from  the  centre  of  the 
mob.  The  bullet  flattened  against  the  bricks  and  in 
the  stillness  that  for  a  moment  followed  the  report 
was  heard  to  drop  on  the  platform. 

"  Save  your  powder !  "  came  a  cry  that  carried  a 
command  in  its  every  tone. 

On  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd  there  had  been  a 
wild  break  for  places  of  safety.  Men,  women  and 
children  ran  into  the  stairways  of  the  buildings 
facing  on  the  square,  gorging  the  narrow  passages 
with  struggling  masses  of  frightened  humanity. 
The  dimly-outlined  figures  which  had  been  visible 
in  the  upper  windows  of  these  buildings  shrank 
back  in  terror. 

Everybody  listened  for  another  pistol  shot,  and 
Bess  Malcolm  was  among  the  rest. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

BESIEGED  and  besiegers  were  saving  their  powder. 
The  leaders  of  the  attack  had  now  reached  the 
platform  through  the  crush  of  helping  hands,  but 
they  were  so  hemmed  in  by  the  crowd  that  they 
ceased  to  have  an  identity,  Tight  against  the 
masonry  and  railings  of  the  platform  they  were 
held  in  an  immovable  wedge.  Here  Win  Disbrow 
had  met  the  attacking  party,  and  it  was  he  who,  by 
the  exertion  of  a  giant's  strength,  raised  his  body 
out  of  the  writhing  mass  and  vaulted  over  the  rail 
ing. 

The  door  of  the  police  office  swung  open.  A 
tall  man  stepped  into  the  flood  of  light  that  flashed 
through  the  opening.  A  pistol  was  in  his  clenched 
fist. 

"  Stand  back  !  "  he  shouted,  pointing  his  left  hand 
at  Win,  "  or  we  will  shoot  to  kill.  Stand  back,  I 
say  ! " 

Again  the  babel  in  the  mob  was  stilled.  In  the 
lighted  room  behind  the  man  who  gave  this  solemn 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  161 

warning  were  ranged  a  row  of  armed  men.  The 
rescuers  were  looking  into  the  muzzles  of  twenty 
pistols. 

"  Get  down,  get  down  quick !  "  yelled  fifty  voices 
at  once  to  Win,  whose  jeopardy  was  in  the  universal 
eye.  Bess  Malcolm,  drawn  on  by  the  fascination  of 
the  scene,  was  now  engulfed  by  the  mob  at  her  back, 
which  like  a  torn  cloth  was  frayed  out  in  tangles  of 
loose  ends.  As  she  was  tossed  hither  and  yon  by 
the  excited  people  she  could  see  Win's  face  in  pro 
file  as  he  stood  there  in  the  track  of  the  gaslight. 
The  polished  metal  of  the  pistols  glimmered  at  his 
back. 

"  They'll  plug  that  feller  chuck  full  of  lead  if  he 
don't  light  out  of  that,  purty  darn  quick,"  said  a 
rough  voice  at  the  trembling  girl's  ear. 

"  Right  you  are,  sonny,"  remarked  another. 
"  They've  got  the  bead  on  him  this  minute." 

Bess's  heart  had  stopped  beating.  She  tried  to 
scream.  It  was  the  first  impulse  of  her  sex,  in  this 
her  extremity,  for  it  was  unnecessary  to  tell  her  that 
between  him  and  death  intervened  nothing  but  the 
twitch  of  a  ringer  on  a  hair-trigger.  She  could  not 
scream,  try  as  she  would.  Why  did  he  court  death 
so  boldly,  so  madly,  so  recklessly  ?  What  was  the 
use?  All  the  slaves  on  earth  were  not  worth  the 


162  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

risk,  she  thought,  as  she  stood  transfixed,  speechless, 
incapable,  watching  him  wait  for  the  final  moment ! 
An  hour  seemed  to  have  flown  by,  yet  there  he 
stood  making  a  jest  of  death  ! 

"  He's  the  blamedest  fool  I  ever  did  see,"  Bess 
heard  someone  say.  Then  her  power  of  speech 
returned.  The  words  which  sprang  to  her  lips  she 
left  unuttered.  They  would  have  called  him  by  the 
same  name.  Assuredly  none  but  a  fool  would 
throw  himself  in  a  bullet's  path.  In  moments  of 
awful  terror  what  pranks  the  mind  plays.  As  the 
mother,  seeing  her  child  drowning,  mingles  her 
agonies  with  blame  that  she  should  have  been  dis 
obeyed,  Bess's  dread  and  Bess's  reprobation  fought 
for  the  mastery.  Was  it  a  sign  that  Win  was  more 
to  her  than  a  good  friend  ?  Even  to  herself  she 
had  hardly  confessed  as  much. 

All  this  takes  time  to  tell,  but,  as  a  matter  of  fact, 
Win  was  not  seeking  martyrdom  this  day.  He^was  in 
front  of  the  levelled  pistols  only  as  long  as  one 
might  count  ten,  perhaps,  when  one  of  the  pointed 
weapons  spit  out  a  mouthful  of  fire.  A  thousand 
things  happened  at  once.  The  door  of  the  police 
office  was  shut  with  a  bang  and  the  mob  involun 
tarily  heaved  backward  impelled  by  the  one  thought 
that  it  was  under  fire.  Then  Win  Disbrow  leaped 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  163 

over  the  railing  to  the  space  thus  cleared,  and  into 
it,  responding  to  his  command,  the  armed  force 
surged  forward.  Free  for  the  instant,  these  men 
went  over  the  iron  barrier,  and  plunged  in  close 
formation  at  the  door.  They  beat  upon  it  with 
their  rods  and  sticks,  and  upon  the  windows  as  well, 
but  to  no  purpose,  for  strong  barricades  inside  made 
futile  the  damage  they  did. 

"  Give  it  to  them  !  "  came  the  cry  from  behind,  for 
those  in  front  employed  their  breath  at  their  work. 
Inspired  by  the  sight,  and  infuriated  by  the 
impregnability  of  the  jail,  the  mob  as  a  whole 
hurled  itself  forward,  cracking  the  railing  as  if  it  had 
been  built  of  slate  pencils,  and  piled  on  the  plat 
form  in  a  squirming,  tumultuous,  resistless  throng. 
It  seemed  as  if  the  building,  mere  brick  and  mortar, 
must  topple  over. 

"  The  building  is  falling !  "  was  a  cry  that  was 
raised  as  the  platform  creaked  under  the  weight  it 
was  bearing  up.  Then  the  mob  broke  again,  those 
farthest  away  from  the  scene  of  action  being  swept 
to  one  side  and  another  as  the  mad  rush  from 
imagined  danger  caught  them  before  the  cry  of 
alarm.  The  movement  scattered  the  people  as  if 
they  had  been  over  an  exploded  mine.  A  handful 
of  sturdy  fellows,  Win  Disbrow  among  them,  stuck 


1 64  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

to  their  task  at  the  besieged  door.  For  the  time 
being  it  looked  as  if  they  had  been  forsaken,  but  a 
shout  ringing  through  a  side  street  said  this  was  an 
illusion. 

"  Out  of  the  way !  It's  now  or  never!  "  sang  fifty 
men  in  unison  as  they  bore  along  a  heavy  beam 
such  as  formed  the  foundation  timbers  of  half  the 
pretentious  buildings  of  the  town.  The  crowd 
re-formed  and  quickly  blackened  the  square.  Those 
who  bore  the  beam  plunged  into  the  heart  of  it 
under  their  own  headway.  They  were  themselves 
to  blame  who  did  not  make  room.  This  was  not 
the  time  nor  place  for  exchange  of  courtesies. 
Broken  heads  and  bruised  bodies  could  be  patched 
up  when  Jerry  Mclienry  was  free.  Men  do  not  ride 
in  a  cavalry  charge  to  the  mincing  steps  of  a  dancing 
school. 

"  Out  of  the  way  !  It's  now  or  never  !  " 
Behind  the  battering-ram,  as  it  was  carried  for 
ward,  the  seething,  roaring  mob  of  people  rushed 
headlong  in  like  the  sand  in  an  inverted  hour-glass, 
Up  the  rise  to  the  platform,  across  it  to  the  face 
of  the  building,  where  until  now  the  law  had  been 
holding  force  at  bay,  this  ponderous  bolt  was  shot 
with  an  impetus  that  toyed  with  the  force  of  gun 
powder.  A  shock  that  shivered  the  glass  in  the 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  165 

unshuttered  windows  and  made  the  brick  wall  bulo-e 

o 

inward  gave  ominous  warning  of  what  was  to  come. 
The  aim  had  not  been  true.  Staggering  under  the 
recoil  of  the  blow,  those  who  wielded  the  beam 
began  to  shift  its  direction  toward  the  barricaded 
door.  With  hands  lacerated  by  the  slivered  edges 
of  the  timber,  they  put  it  in  motion  again,  as  chil 
dren  do  a  swing  hung  from  an  apple  tree.  They 
could  be  heard  groaning  under  its  weight,  as  it 
gained  momentum. 

"  One,  two,  three,"  Win  Disbrow  was  counting. 

"  Now  !  "  he  cried  with  the  last  word.  This  time 
the  beam  was  driven  hard  at  the  middle  door. 
The  panels  split  like  taut  tissue  paper.  Within 
there  was  a  crash  of  woodwork.  Jerry  McHenry's 
captors  might  have  saved  the  furniture.  All  the 
tables  and  chairs  they  had  used  for  fortifications 
tumbled  in  a  ruined  heap  on  the  floor.  The  way 
was  open.  The  slave's  rescuers  might  walk  where 
lately  they  had  been  denied — did  they  but  dare. 

And  on  that  historic  spot  at  that  historic  moment 
there  were  men  brave  enough  to  take  the  risk. 
There  were  men  who  did.  When  went  there  by 
a  time  that  human  courage  left  great  opportunity 
unimproved?  Is  there  not  always  a  hand  to  lift  the 
flag  to  the  blood-sodden  rampart  ?  What  hope 


1 66  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

forlorn  that  does  not  know  a  leader?  This  was  no 
battle— this  rescue  of  a  slave — with  pomp  and  cir 
cumstance  of  war  to  stir  the  blood  of  men  to  lofty 
deeds, — but  it  had  its  place  for  heroes.  To  pass 
across  that  shattered  barrier  meant  to  face  death. 
Within  they  had  the  right  to  kill.  To  kill,  in  turn 
was  murder.  Such  was  the  law. 

"  How  still  it  is!  "  came  from  a  terrified  onlooker 
in  a  hoarse  whisper.  It  was  still,  for  it  was  not 
war.  The  cannon's  boom  and  drum-beat  came 
long  years  after.  Those  who  rescued  Jerry  made 
war  without  knowing  it.  The  hush  was  the  hush 
of  heaven  when  rent  by  mighty  thunder,  the  splen 
did  moment  of  flashing  firmament  when  peal  from 
peal  is  separated  by  silence  unfathomable.  Then 
victory,  voiced  in  a  thousand  fashions,  was  cried  by 
the  multitude,  now  impatient  for  its  reward. 

The  narrow  passage  in  the  doorway  was  choked 
with  those  who  would  be  first  to  fetch  forth  the 
slave.  Every  eye  under  that  starlit  sky  strained  to 
see.  The  spectacle  was  of  a  black  mass  throwing 
itself  into  a  chasm  of  light.  Elizabeth  Malcolm 
thought  she  could  single  out  one  of  these  writhing 
forms.  Her  intuition  told  her  better  than  her 
vision  who  was  there.  Far  back  in  the  crowd  she 
listened  to  men  and  women  saying  that  death  held 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  167 

that  lighted  space.  She  turned  away  dizzy  and  sick 
with  terror.  When  she  looked  again,  the  doorway 
too  was  dark.  A  flash  and  a  report  marked  its 
location  in  the  looming  wall  against  which  the  mob 
was  pressing.  Like  all  the  rest  she  felt  the  jar  as 
those  who  faced  the  pistol  fire  on  the  platform  reeled 
under  the  impulse  to  fall  back.  It  seemed  to  the 
girl  as  if  she  were  falling  over  a  precipice. 

"  You'd  better  git  out  o'  hyer,  Missy  Bess,"  Dick 
Richards  whispered,  as  she  was  caught  by  both 
elbows  from  behind  and  held  up.  The  girl  shook 
herself  from  the  grip  and  turned  upon  the  negro  a 
face  full  of  anger.  On  her  lips  a  storm  of  indigna 
tion  was  trembling.  Yet  what  had  he  done 
that  any  man  might  not  do  to  serve  a  woman  in 
distress  ?  Did  the  touch  of  a  negro  defile  her  she 
wondered  ?  Then  it  came  to  her  that  his  place 
was  where  Win  Disbrow  stood  that  moment,  his 
life  in  his  hands,  fighting  for  the  cause  from  which 
this  man  was  a  deserter !  Perhaps  one  precious  life 
had  been  sacrificed  already,  for  while  the  negro  and 
the  girl  struggled  for  a  foothold  in  the  wrenching 
crowd,  the  shout  went  up  that  the  law  had  dealt  a 
mortal  blow — a  man  had  fallen  with  a  ball  in  his 
heart.  Whose  life  had  paid  the  forfeit? 

"  There    is    where    you    should    be,"     Bess   said. 


168  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Her  face  was  of  an  ashen  hue  and  her  right  arm 
stretched  out  toward  the  platform. 

"  I'se  done  bin  dar,  Missy  Bess,"  the  negro  replied, 
"an*  come  hyer  ter  watch  ober  you,  Missy  Bess, 
'cause — 'cause,  hes  dar.  I'll  go  back  dar  if  you 
says  so." 

"  Go  !  "  was  the  girl's  command. 

He  started  at  the  word. 

"  Dick  !  "  Bess  called,  "  Dick  Richards  !  "  The 
negro  returned  as  if  he  had  been  a  dog  on  a  chain. 

"  If  Mr.  Disbrow  is — hurt,  let  me  know  quickly. 
Quickly,  you  understand.'  Bess  was  trying  to 
smile  as  if  to  soften  the  rebuke  she  had  adminis 
tered,  but  the  effort  ended  in  a  quiver  of  the  lip 
that  told  of  the  agony  in  her  heart. 

Crawling  like  a  snake  in  a  meadow  the  negro 
was  soon  out  of  sight  in  the  crowded  square.  What 
was  happening  on  the  platform,  or  within  the 
stronghold  behind  it  that  had  been  reduced  by  the 
mob,  was  indistinguishable  in  the  dark.  There  had 
been  but  one  shot.  After  that — the  word  came 
back  from  in  front — the  fugitive  slave's  guard  had 
been  overpowered  by  the  enraged  rescuers,  who 
had  rushed  upon  them  and  snatched  the  cocked 
pistols  from  their  hands.  What  this  desperate 
adventure  had  cost  in  lives  nobody  could  tell. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  169 

Several  men  had  been  trampled  under  foot,  that 
was  sure,  and  had  been  dragged  out  to  the  edge  of 
the  crowd  dripping  blood.  A  little  boy,  pallid  and 
limp,  with  a  bludgeon  in  his  rigid  fist,  was  passed 
over  the  heads  of  the  people  to  a  place  of  safety, 
whence  a  group  of  women  found  their  way,  to  pat 
his  palms  and  dash  his  face  with  water.  The 
breath  had  been  squeezed  out  of  him.  While  he 
blinked  recognition  of  their  tender  ministrations 
one  of  the  women  swooned  and  his  little  woes  were 
quite  forgotten.  "  Pickpockets  !  "  cried  someone  the 
next  instant,  as  a  youth  with  a  knitted  cap  drawn 
down  over  his  ears  darted  out  of  the  packed 
square  and,  as  spry  as  a  rabbit,  jumped  clear  of  ex 
tended  arms.  Then  he  disappeared  around  the 
corner  into  the  night.  Here  a  rowdy,  whose  crown 
had  been  cracked,  cursed  his  luck  that  set  him  sav 
ing  niggers  ;  over  there  this  blaspheming  was  offset 
by  a  few  words  of  audible  prayer.  It  was  the  hurly- 
burly  of  a  mob.  Swinging  backward  and  forward, 
to  the  right  and  to  the  left,  it  eddied  and  whirled 
around  a  dozen  false  alarms  at  once,  a  wild-eyed 
concourse  of  patriots,  and  of  thugs  too,  who  had 
made  the  law  of  the  land  a  by-word  and  a  jest  ! 

"  Is  he  free  ?  "     Win   Disbrow  spoke  the  words 
through  parched    lips.       Stretched  prone   upon  his 


170  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

back  he  lay  upon  the  stone  steps  of  a  neighbouring 
dwelling,  past  which  the  people  were  running  at  top 
speed  in  the  wake  of  a  coach  and  pair  that  had 
gone  clattering  out  of  the  square.  A  heedless  run 
ner  roughly  jostled  Bess  Malcolm  as  she  bent  over 
the  prostrate  form.  He  paid  clear  for  his  awkward 
ness.  Dick  Richards  beat  him  down  into  the 
gutter  with  a  single  blow.  Few  men  could  have 
done  it.  What  other  could  have  brought  the 
young  doctor,  maimed  and  helpless,  out  of  that 
maelstrom  of  brutal  energy  that  had  sacked  the 
city  prison  ?  It  was  the  feat  of  a  gladiator,  and  the 
stalwart  negro  looked  like  one,  as  proudly  he  had 
delivered  his  burden  into  the  keeping  of  his  bene 
factress. 

"  I  shall  not  forget  this,  Dick,"  Bess  said. 

She  had  not  answered  the  question  Win  had 
asked.  The  negro  would  have  made  reply  had  not 
she  gently  put  him  aside  with  a  motion  of  her 
hand.  He  understood,  and  stepped  back  into  the 
shadow  of  the  porch,  and  when,  as  the  last  footfalls 
died  out  in  the  quiet  street,  Win's  eyes  opened,  he 
was  gone.  There  was  other  help  at  hand,  kindly 
folk,  who  lifted  Win  within  the  dwelling,  where  his 
hurts  had  skilful  treatment.  He  had  been  under 
foot  in  the  advance  guard  on  the  platform  when  the 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  171 

fray  was  thickest.  A  blow  upon  the  head  had 
dropped  him  in  his  tracks,  but  neither  he  nor 
another  had  fallen  beneath  the  pistol  shot.  The 
ball  had  gone  wide  of  a  human  mark.  By  what 
miracle  he  had  been  saved  from  being  ground  under 
the  heels  of  the  mob,  it  was  Bess's  privilege  alone 
to  know. 

Win  Disbrow's  gaze  rested  on  Bess's  face  when 
next  the  languid  eyelids  raised  and  the  purpled  lips 
shaped  themselves  for  speech. 

"  Ah,  Bess,"  he  murmured,  "  is  that  you  ?  You 
will  tell  me.  Is  he  free  ?  Has  Jerry  escaped  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Win,"  was  the  girl's  simple  reply.  "  And 
you  will  be  all  right  yourself  very  soon.  The  doctor 
here  says  so." 

Win's  eyes  wandered  from  one  face  to  the  other. 

"  I  guess  I  did  get  a  little  the  worst  of  it,  but  I 
don't  mind  if  Jerry  got  away.  You're  not  saying 
what  isn't  so  just  to  make  me  easy,  are  you  ?  "  And 
he  searched  the  faces  about  him.  "  You're  not  lying 
to  me  ?" 

"  It's  the  truth,"  Bess  said.  Her  eyes  were  over- 
flowing. 

"  Forgive  me,  Bess,"  was  Win's  response.  "  I  for 
got  where  I  was  ;  I  forgot  it  was  you.  So  he's  free, 
Jerry's  free  !  Daniel  Webster  was  the  only  one  who 
lied." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

IT  was  the  opinion  of  Win  Disbrow's  aged  mentor 
that  he  would  carry  the  marks  of  the  Jerry  Rescue 
to  his  grave.  When  Dr.  Sampson  told  Lyme  Dis- 
brow  so,  the  picture-taker  remarked  that  the  next 
world  was  the  only  place  where  they  would  be  ap 
preciated. 

"  I  can't  agree  with  you,  my  friend,"  Dr.  Sampson 
rejoined,  "  I  can't  agree  with  you.  Those  are  hon 
ourable  scars.  Take  my  word  for  it,  you  will  live 
long  enough  to  be  proud  your  son  has  them,  as  he 
will  be.  Take  my  word  for  it." 

Lyme  had  been  a  constant  watcher  at  Win's  bed 
side  from  the  hour  that  he  had  been  brought  to 
Smithboro  to  become  the  occupant  of  the  spare 
room  in  the  preacher's  house.  This  was  an  arrange 
ment  on  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Disbrow  had  insisted, 
and  fortunately  the  young  doctor  had  been  prevailed 
upon  to  consent  to  it,  for  there  had  followed  weeks 
of  delirious  fever  that  called  for  just  such  attention 
as  Bess  Macolm  was  able  to  give  the  injured  man 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  173 

under  her  own  roof.  Win's  vigourous  health  had 
unquestionably  saved  him  from  the  worst  conse 
quences  of  his  disablement.  Yet  he  had  suffered 
cruelly. 

Lyme  was  looking  at  a  healed  wound  from  which 
Dr.  Sampson  had  just  unwound  the  bandage  as  he 
spoke. 

"You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  doctor,"  the  picture- 
taker  continued,  "I'm  down  on  niggers  now  more'n 
ever  I  was.  I  can't  take  your  opinion  on  anything 
concerning  niggers.  I  didn't  never  tell  you,  did  I, 
'bout  old  Deacon  Bronson,who  used  to  run  the  hull 
town  o'  Lenox  when  it  came  to  politicking?  Well, 
one  day  at  one  of  the  county  conventions,  they  got 
twisted  in  a  terrible  tangle,  an'  the  Deacon  made  a 
motion  that  he  thought'd  straighten  things  out 
slick  an'  clean.  Then  up  jumps  old  Dr.  Purple, — 
you  remember  him,  Dr.  Purple  of  Woodstock, — with 
an  amendment.  It  didn't  'mount  to  a  hill  o'  beans, 
but  the  old  doctor  thought  it  did,  an'  he  shouted 
out  to  the  Deacon  to  take  the  amendment  an'  end 
the  trouble.  '  Take  my  amendment,  take  my  amend 
ment  ! '  he  says,  jest  like  that.  '  No  siree,'  says  the 
Deacon,  '  I  won't.  I'll  take  your  pulmonic  salve  an' 
your  liver  pills,  doctor,  but  you  can't  work  off  none 
o'  your  amendments  on  me.'  The  Deacon's  dead 


i/4  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

now  ;  died  o'  the  yaller  janders  five  years  ago — no, 
twa'n't,  'twas  three  years  ago,  the  same  day  that  the 
lightnin^struck  the  steeple  on  the  Methodist  church 
at  Perryville.  They  put  the  steeple  back,  but  that 
was  the  end  'o  the  Deacon.  There's  no  help  for  the 
janders,  is  there,  doctor?  " 

In  this  parable  the  picture-taker  told  the  old  doc 
tor  that  his  prescriptions  and  his  opinions  were  not 
to  be  regarded  as  of  equal  efficacy,  and  he  laughed 
heartily  at  the  application  of  it. 

"  There's  no  help  for  you,  Lyman,  any  way  you 
put  it,"  Dr.  Sampson  said  in  a  merry  tone.  "  Your 
case  is  hopeless." 

It  would  have  been  good  time  wasted  had  it  been 
attempted  to  persuade  the  picture-taker  that  the 
Jerry  Rescue  was  worth  the  risk  his  son  had  run. 
Yet  the  country  was  already  resounding  with  the 
angry  pronunciamentoes  of  the  embittered  sides. 
Through  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  land  the 
events  at  Syracuse  were  pointed  at  as  the  proved 
failure  of  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law.  The  Abolition 
ists  were  in  great  glee.  Up  from  the  South  came 
the  cry  that  it  must  not  be  cheated  of  its  prey  by 
either  the  weakness  or  the  cowardice  of  the  Govern 
ment  at  Washington.  A  political  convention  in 
Georgia  had  hinted  at  the  possibility  of  secession 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  175 

unless  there  were  ample  redress  for  the  slave  holders' 
wrongs ! 

Beyond  all  peradventure,  when  that  pair  of  horses 
went  clattering  down  the  side  street  of  the  city 
made  famous  by  the  Jerry  Rescue,  a  spirit  of  mis 
chief  was  awakened  that  threatened  to  lead  the 
country  blindfold  on  to  destruction.  It  was  dashing 
on  the  rocks  when  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law  was 
thrown  out  as  an  anchor  cast  to  windward.  But 
the  anchor  would  not  hold.  Jerry  McHenry  was 
free  in  Canada,  whither  he  had  been  guided,  with 
little  effort  at  concealment,  after  he  had  been  sur 
rendered  to  his  rescuers.  They  had  found  him 
erect  and  his  guards  on  their  knees  asking  for  mercy, 
at  the  final  charge  on  the  jail.  The  arrest  of  eighteen 
of  the  participants  in  the  slave's  escape  in  no 
way  dampened  the  ardour  of  the  others,  as  guilty, 
but  who  were  left  unmolested.  As  Peter  Gerritt 
was  among  the  latter,  known  as  he  was  to  have 
been  a  moving  force  in  the  rescue,  though  excused 
by  age  from  the  mobbing,  the  Government  was 
openly  taunted  with  cowardice. 

It  was  no  secret,  either,  that  Dr.  Winfield  Scott 
Disbrow  had  had  a  hand  in  the  rescue.  Such  mea 
gre  accounts  of  the  escape  of  Jerry  as  were  printed 
gave  him  prominence  without  naming  him,  as  none 


176  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

other  was  named,  the  exploit  having  at  least  the 
silent  sympathy  of  the  press.  The  newspaper  of 
half  a  century  ago  was  a  human  thing.  Heartless 
enterprise  is  a  modern  feature  of  its  equipment. 

"  And  what  can  I  do  now  for  the  '  young  torch- 
bearer  of  Liberty' who  shall  be  nameless?"  Bess 
would  say  to  Win  when  he  was  able  to  sit  up  in  the 
cushioned  chair.  It  was  in  this  fashion  that  Win  had 
been  designated  in  one  of  the  accounts  of  the  Res 
cue.  The  description  had  sounded  so  pretty  on 
Bess's  lips  that  Win  let  her  use  it  at  her  own  sweet 
will.  Sometimes  he  spoke  of  himself  as  "  the  young 
torch-bearer  of  Liberty,"  now  that  his  bones  had 
stopped  aching.  At  the  same  time  he  would  not 
listen  to  praises  of  his  part  in  the  episode,  no  matter 
how  delicately  they  were  phrased  by  his  faithful 
nurse. 

"  Any  fool  could  have  got  into  that  mob  and 
been  knocked  on  the  head,"  Win  insisted,  the  first 
time  Bess  had  broached  the  subject  of  his  personal 
bravery.  "  That  was  easy.  It's  a  good  thing  that 
some  of  the  rescuers  had  sense  enough  to  keep  out 
of  the  way  of  the  clubs,  or  Jerry  would  have  had  no 
one  to  help  him.  And  I  have  been  wondering,  ever 
since  I  could  think  at  all,  who  it  was  who  helped 
me  out  ?  Do  you  know,  Bess  ?  " 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  177 

This  was  a  query  the  girl  had  hoped  might  have 
been  long  deferred.  To  answer  it  frankly  would 
be  once  more  to  bring  the  evil  omen  of  Dick  Rich- 
ards's  existence  into  their  happy  lives.  Bess  and 
Win  had  indeed  been  happy  as  men  and  women 
ever  are  when  devotion  and  helpfulness  go  hand  in 
hand.  She  chose,  therefore,  to  hide  the  truth  that 
would  have  dimmed  that  happiness.  It  was  cow 
ardly,  she  knew,  and  for  a  moment  she  wavered  in 
her  determination  to  leave  the  negro's  noble  service 
unheralded  ;  but  in  the  end  she  returned  an  evasive 
answer  to  his  question. 

"  So  you  think  yourself  a  fool,  do  you,"  Bess 
said.  "  Well,  I  don't.  Don't  forget  that  I  was  in 
that  mob." 

"  We  are  all  fools  sometimes — the  wisest  of  us," 
Win  went  on  to  say.  "  Perhaps  the  world  is  better 
for  it.  Wisdom  could  not  have  dictated  the  rescue 
of  Jerry  Mclienry;  yet  who  can  tell  what  great 
good  may  come  of  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Bess  said,  dropping  into  a  chair  beside 
her  charge.  "  Yes,  hasn't  somebody  said  that  fools 
rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread  ?  " 

"  Suppose  we  leave  all  the  others  out  of  considera 
tion,  Bess,  and  say  that  this  is  an  affair  in  which  a 
fool  and  an  angel  only  are  concerned." 


1 78  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Bess  felt  Win's  hand  clasp  her  own  as  it  lay  upon 
the  crumpled  muslin  of  her  frock.  She  had  nothing 
to  say  to  this,  for  he  was  putting  into  words  the 
single  thought  that  was  bringing  the  old  lustre  back 
to  his  eyes.  What  he  was  saying  was  pleasant  to 
her  ear,  and  she  was  content  to  listen. 

"  An  angel  and  a  fool,  I  said,"  Win  continued  as 
if  to  call  forth  a  reply.  His  wan  cheek  was  ablaze 
with  colour  and  his  grasp  tight  over  Bess's  yielding 
fingers. 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  say,  Win  ?  "  Bess  asked. 
"  That  I  am  an  angel  or  that  you  are  a  fool  ?  Neither 
is  true,  although  I  once  had  a  doubt." 

"  When  was  that  ?  " 

"  When  you  faced  that  pistol  in  Syracuse.  But 
I  did  not  know.  How  could  I  ?  I  thought  it  so 
foolish  of  you.  But  it  was  brave,  Win,  very  brave 
and — 

"You  really  feared  for  me,  did  you,  Bess — did 
you  ?  " 

The  invalid  had  drawn  the  girl  towards  him, 
and  she,  unresisting,  had  bent  down  close  to  his  pil 
lowed  head.  All  her  soul  was  filled  with  joy,  and 
the  mystery  of  it  entranced  her. 

"  Yes,  Win,"  was  what  she  said. 

"  There  was  no  danger,  Bess,    no   danger   at  all, 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  179 

but  I  wish  there  had  been  that  you  might  have 
wished  me  to  live." 

"  That  was  my  wish,  Win — that  you  might  live." 

"  For  you  ?  " 

"  For  me.     You  see  I'm  selfish,  after  all." 

There  came  a  gentle  tap  on  the  door  and  the  rat 
tle  of  the  latch  as  it  was  lifted.  Love's  young  dream 
went  rudely  by  the  board,  and  Dorothy  Gerritt  was 
its  unconscious  disturber.  She  was  on  the  other 
side  of  the  door  asking  in  a  soft  voice  if  she  might 
come  in,  and  having  been  admitted,  with  such  sem 
blance  of  gravity  as  Bess  could  instantly  summon  to 
her  aid,  she  would  have  backed  out  again  as  fast  as 
she  could  had  not  her  father  blocked  the  passage. 

"  Oh  my,"  were  the  words  in  which  Dorothy  put 
her  surprise,  as  with  girlish  impetuosity  she 
attempted  to  beat  a  retreat.  There  was  neverthe 
less  the  light  of  discovery  in  her  sparkling  eyes. 
Happily  for  all  concerned  Mr.  Gerritt  came  forward 
to  relieve  the  embarrassment. 

Mr.  Gerritt  had  been  most  solicitous  regarding 
Win's  injuries,  and  hardly  a  day  had  passed  that 
had  not  found  him  inquiring  at  the  preacher's  door. 
On  most  of  these  visits  Dorothy  had  accompanied 
him,  and  after  Win  had  come  through  the  fever, 
they  often  sat  awhile  at  his  bedside.  Sometimes 


1 8o  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Dorothy  had  remained  with  Bess  after  her  father 
had  made  his  farewells.  Win  had  been  making  it 
a  point  to  ask  her  to  remain.  She  brought  sun 
shine  into  the  room  whenever  she  came.  Her 
girlish  chatter  brightened  him  up  when  he  was  in 
the  lowest  spirits,  and,  what  was  better  still,  as  Win 
viewed  it,  made  Bess  forget  for  the  time  being 
the  burden  she  was  carrying.  Care  of  him,  he  was 
not  slow  to  see,  had  been  a  burden,  and  it  was  show 
ing  in  many  ways  that  passed  others  unobserved, 
but  obtruded  themselves  on  a  physician's  notice. 
This  is  why  he  had  several  times  insisted  on  dismiss 
ing  his  nurse,  only  to  extend  the  period  of  her 
services  when  he  found  that  he  had  given  her 
pain. 

This  morning  Mr.  Gerritt  was  overjoyed  to  dis 
cover  his  young  ally  sitting  up  for  the  first  time. 
What  was  more,  he  saw  that  the  bloom  of  health 
was  coming  back  into  Win's  cheeks.  Out  of  his  eyes 
was  shining  that  look  of  goodly  strength,  of  happy 
confidence,  of  manly  candour  that  had  won  the 
great  man's  favour  at  the  beginning  of  their  ac 
quaintance. 

"Ah,  my  dear  young  friend,"  the  Abolitionist 
seer  said,  taking  Win's  hand  with  a  hearty  grip, 
"you  will  soon  be  yourself  again.  Believe  me,  I 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  181 

am  very  glad  indeed.  A  few  days  more  and  you 
will  be  on  your  feet  again,  I  am  very  sure." 

"  I  never  felt  better  in  all  my  life,  Mr.  Gerritt," 
was  Win's  answer.  Mr.  Gerritt  did  not  see  where 
his  young  friend's  glance  was  resting,  but  Dorothy- 
was  quicker  sighted,  and,  with  the  very  mischief 
in  a  face  screwed  into  a  mask  of  demureness,  she 
said  : 

"  I'm  sure  we're  tiring  Dr.  Disbrow,  papa,  and  we 
ought  to  be  going.  Don't  you  think  so,  Bess?" 

Bess  could  have  boxed  her  tormentor's  ears,  but 
she  did  the  wiser  thing  and  led  her  into  the  corner 
of  the  room,  ostensibly  to  look  at  a  Currier  print  of 
Gen.  Zachariah  Taylor  at  Vera  Cruz,  a  sprawling 
picture  melodramatically  illustrating  the  fatal  mo 
ment  when,  performing  feats  of  astounding  horse 
manship  on  the  back  of  a  milk-white  steed,  the 
grizzled  hero  of  the  Mexican  war  was  dodging  a 
cannon  ball,  lithographed  in  three  colours,  that  came 
hurtling  through  space  in  a  trail  of  pyrotechnical 
splashes  of  Pompeiian-red  and  chrome-yellow  and 
navy-blue. 

Mr.  Gerritt,  innocent  in  his  greatness,  as  most 
sages  are,  would  have  risen  to  go,  had  not  Win's 
laugh  reassured  him. 

"  You     have    not   suffered    in  vain,"  Mr.    Gerritt 


182  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

said,  "  not  in  vain.  The  night-time  of  our  cause  is 
passing.  The  Jerry  Rescue  has  brought  the  whole 
country  to  a  realizing  sense  of  what  it  means  to 
defy  the  patriotic  sentiment  of  the  people.  We 
have  shown  President  Fillmore  that  this  infamous 
law  cannot  be  enforced.  Our  friends  in  all  the  free 
states  will  take  example  by  what  has  been  done  in 
Syracuse,  and,  unless  the  law  be  repealed  at  the 
next  session  of  Congress,  we  will  fill  the  prisons  of 
the  North  with  offenders  the  Government  will  not 
dare  to  try.  To  hasten  the  day  of  deliverance 
from  this  devil-prompted  law,  I  have  decided  to  be  a 
candidate  for  Congress.  Our  friends  think  that  I  can 
serve  them  in  Washington,  and,  God  willing,  I  shall 
raise  my  voice  for  them  in  the  national  halls  of  legis 
lation.  I  feel  convinced  that  we  are  on  the  road  to  vic 
tory.  The  law  has  few  friends  left,  few  real  friends. 
Jefferson  Davis  was  right.  He  says  such  a  law 
cannot  live.  It  was  passed,  he  says,  by  the  minor 
ity  representation  from  the  South,  with  the  simple 
acquiescence,  not  the  support,  of  the  majority  from 
the  North.  Yet  this  was  a  law  that  was  to  be 
enforced,  not  in  the  South,  but  in  the  North.  This 
is  why  Davis  says  it  cannot  survive,  and  he  is 
right." 

"  Webster's  prophecy  failed,"  Win  remarked,  his 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  183 

voice  as  firm  as  ever  it  was.  "  Now  I  have  hopes  of 
Davis's  logic." 

"  Our  hope,  my  dear  friend,  is  in  the  youth 
of  the  land.  Many  of  us  are  too  old  to  keep 
up  the  fight  much  longer,  and  our  places  must  be 
filled  by  the  young  men,  by  men — you  will  let  me 
say  it  ? — like  you,  whose  vigour  is  coequal  with  their 
zeal." 

Again  wishing  Win  a  speedy  recovery,  Mr.  Gerritt 
withdrew,  but  not  without  paying  a  kindly  tribute 
to  Bess's  ability  as  a  nurse.  Dorothy's  arm  was 
around  her  friend's  waist  in  a  fond  embrace.  The 
girls  were  on  their  feet  and  faced  Win,  who,  to 
tell  the  truth,  was  wincing  under  the  quizzical  gaze 
that  Dorothy  centred  on  him. 

"I  knew  it  the  moment  I  came  in,"  she  finally  said 
with  a  toss  of  the  head  that  was  meant  to  signify 
her  powers  of  discernment.  "  I'm  no  doctor,  Win 
Disbrow,  but  I  can  tell  a  real  blush  from  a  streak  of 
red  paint.  Poor  papa  can't,  you  know,  and  thought 
everything  red  he  spied  about  the  room  was  the 
glow  of  health — or  something." 

"  Well  ?  "  was  Win's  lighthearted  query,  "  What 
have  you  to  say  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  was  the  girl's  answer,  "  only  what  I 
told  Bess — you've  been  a  long  time  about  it. 


1 84  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  Wasn't  it  worth  waiting  for  ?  "  Win  inquired  as 
he  reached  out  his  hand  to  take  one  of  Bess's  that 
hung  conveniently  near. 

"  I  suppose  it  was,"  Dorothy  replied,  rather 
grudgingly,  "  and  now  I  dare  say  all  that  is  left  me 
to  do  is  to  kiss  you  both  and  say  I'm  glad." 
Whereupon  she  pressed  her  lips  to  Bess's  face  and 
left  a  teardrop  there. 

"  May  I  ?  "  Dorothy  said,  looking  first  at  Win  and 
then  at  Bess. 

"  After  me,"  was  what  Bess  said,  and  Win  felt 
the  fulness  of  his  love  melt  into  the  warmth  of  the 
first  kiss.  "  It  was  mine  by  right,"  Bess  added, 
"  but  you  robbed  me  of  it  when  you  came  into  the 
room  a  little  while  ago." 

"  I  might  have  known,"  exclaimed  Dorothy. 
"  I'm  the  village  pest  and  ought  to  be  spanked  and 
sent  to  bed.  No,  I  won't  take  it.  I  deserve  to  be 
punished.  Naughty  children  get  no  sugar  plums. 
You  kiss  him  for  me." 

Then  in  a  gust  of  laughter  she  closed  the  door 
behind  herself. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

WINTER  in  Smithboro  was  distinguished  by  a 
polar  austerity.  Deep  snows  covered  the  village 
half  the  time  half-way  to  the  eaves.  For  days  and 
days  the  hardy  drivers  who  breasted  the  recurring 
storms  could  not  urge  their  horses  through  the 
burrowed  drifts.  All  hands  felt  satisfied  if  they 
could  keep  the  paths  open  from  the  stoves  to  the 
wood-piles.  It  was  as  much  as  the  imperial  elms  of 
Smithboro  could  do  to  keep  their  aspiring  heads 
above  the  snow  line. 

The  picture-wagon  was  snowed  in  at  Disbrow's 
Corner. 

"  Business  is  suspended,"  Lyme  said,  as  he  toasted 
his  shins  at  the  tavern  fire,  "  owin'  to  the  inclemency 
of  the  weather." 

One  day  a  critic  of  his  sloth  said  to  him  that  if  he 
had  half  an  eye  to  his  opportunities  he  would  heat 
the  wagon  and  keep  going. 

"  Doggone  it,  no  !  "  Lyme  answered,  taking  a  fresh 
hold  on  his  pipe-stem.  "  I  don't  look  on  it  jest  that 


1 86  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

way.  One  of  the  busiest  men  in  these  parts,  you 
mayn't  know,  was  old  Elder  Rogers  of  Slocum 
Valley.  You  didn't  know  him,  of  course,  'cause  he 
never  spent  no  time  loafin'  round  the  taverns. 
Well,  the  Elder  hooked  his  sorrel  mare  to  his  buggy 
one  day  an'  started  down  the  road.  A  neighbour  of 
his'n,  who  thought  he  knew  more'n  the  Elder,  met 
him  down  near  the  grist  mill,  an'  hollered  to  him 
that  his  harness  wa'n't  half  on.  '  You'll  never  git 
to  Perryville  while  you're  in  that  fix.  You  gol- 
darned  old  fool,  your  harness  ain't  half  on,'  says  the 
neighbour.  '  I  know/  up  an'  says  the  Elder.  '  You 
see  I'm  only  goin'  half-way.'  Elder  Rogers  was  one 
o'  the  crosseyedest  fellers  I  ever  did  see.  He  was 
a  brother-in-law  to  the  Congregational  preacher  at 
Woodstock — they  both  married  Dorkins  gals." 

It  was  plain  that  the  winter  had  no  terrors  for 
Lyme  Disbrow.  At  its  bitterest  he  professed  to  be 
as  warm  as  toast.  The  fact  was  that  he  was  living 
in  the  radiance  of  the  two  lives  that  concerned  him 
most.  It  was  the  tattle  of  the  village  that  Win  and 
Bess  were  to  wed  in  the  Spring,  and  in  anticipation 
of  this  event  Bess  was  reported  to  be  stitching  away 
on  a  marvellous  array  of  fabrics,  such  as  had  never 
been  brought  into  Smithboro  before.  There  were 
vague  rumours  that  the  marriage  was  to  take  place 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  187 

in  the  meeting  house,  and  that  it  was  to  be  marked 
by  some  extraordinary  kind  of  ceremonious  display. 
In  other  words  it  was  to  be  a  wedding  in  the  "  city 
fashion."  At  this  the  sedate  villagers,  especially 
those  who  had  insisted  that  Bess  was  stuck-up,  shook 
their  heads  and  bewailed  the  fact  that  the  village 

o 

was  going  to  the  bad. 

"  Wouldn't  wonder,  nuther,"  a  leading  worker  in 
the  sewing  circle  had  remarked,  "  if  they'd  have 
tickets  of  admission  like  a  circus  show.  They  do 
tell  me  that's  the  kind  of  carryin'-on  they  have  in  the 
city." 

All  the  time  it  was  knock,  knock,  knock  at  the 
preacher's  door.  The  good  women  of  Smithboro 
were  calling  on  the  preacher's  wife  in  droves. 
When  they  came  away,  and  it  was  hinted  that 
something  might  have  been  in  sight  to  give  an  ink 
ling  of  what  the  wedding  was  to  be  like,  they  said 
they  hoped  they  knew  their  manners  better  than  to 
be  prying  into  other  folks'  business. 

It  must  not  be  imagined  that  Smithboro,  lying 
under  the  heavy  snow,  had  been  shut  in  entirely 
with  these  good  women  and  their  innocent  gossip. 
Through  the  dreary  months  the  Underground  Rail 
road  continued  in  operation.  No  winter  was  severe 
enough  to  lay  an  embargo  on  its  mysterious  traffic 


i88  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Flight  was  no  harder  than  pursuit  along  its  line,  and 
as  here  was  a  case  of  self-preservation  against  pur 
suit,  the  first  law  of  Nature  kept  on  winning.  So 
the  fugitives  faced  the  wintry  blasts  that  turned 
back  many  a  pursuer.  Not  all  of  them  got  through 
alive.  As  a  physician,  as  well  as  a  friend  of  the 
cause,  Win  had  been  at  hand  to  make  the  long  way 
less  perilous  to  the  hunted  wretches  who  travelled 
it.  Once,  at  least,  he  had  returned  to  the  warmth 
of  his  own  fire,  more  dead  than  alive  through  the 
hardships  he  had  borne,  with  a  black  mother  and 
her  child  riding  stark  in  death  at  his  side.  It  was  a 
woeful  story  of  desperate  endeavour,  unrewarded  at 
last,  that  he  never  told  over  the  threshold  of  Peter 
Gerritt's  door.  How  many  others  as  pitiful 
darkened  that  weary  way  ! 

But  this  is  a  tale  of  the  living,  not  of  the  dead. 

Hark  !  A  robin  red-breast  has  built  him  a  nest  in 
the  tallest  of  the  elms.  Up  there  he  is  singing  of  the 
springtime,  and  the  leaves  are  uncurling  so  majesti 
cally,  as  the  sun  kisses  them,  that  grim  winter,  so 
lately  holding  all  the  world  in  icy  fetters,  fades  from 
sight  at  the  chirrup  of  a  bird.  This  ghostly  thing 
in  a  winding  sheet  that  deadens  the  foot-falls  of 
tramping  men  and  silences  the  very  thunders  of 
her:v:Mi,  with  power  in  its  crystal  fingers  to  check  a 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  189 

leaping  torrent,  or  pinch  a  maiden's  cheek  till  it  be 
red,  must  surely  have  been  a  fantasy  of  a  wakeful 
hour  !  Winter  !  what  is  that  ?  A  dream,  perhaps  ! 
A  robin  red-breast  in  a  tree-top  has  banished  it. 

On  the  centre-table  of  the  Rev.  Abner  Disbrow's 
parlour  a  candle  was  eking  out  the  fleeting  light  of 
an  evening  in  the  latter  end  of  April.  It  chanced 
that  Bess  Malcolm  was  dividing  the  glimmer  of  the 
lighted  wick  with  no  soul  else.  To  her  that  day,  as 
she  had  passed  under  the  elms,  the  first  sweet  notes 
of  the  robin  red-breast  had  floated  down  in  a  wave 
of  melody.  A  voice  in  her  heart  took  up  the 
tender  strain  and  sang  it  over  and  over  again.  It 
was  this  music,  welling  through  her  senses  like  a 
potent  charm,  that  caused  Bess  to  lay  aside  her 
needle  and  throw  herself  back  in  an  ecstasy  of  de 
light.  Nothing  could  break  the  spell,  she  thought, 
save  a  longed-for  footstep  on  the  gravelled  walk 
outside.  In  fact  Bess  was  at  that  precise  moment 
straining  her  power  of  hearing  that  she  might  catch 
it  at  the  gate. 

A  pair  of  stout  knuckles  beating  on  the  door 
panel  startled  her  from  her  reverie.  Surely  Win 
had  not  made  such  a  surreptitious  approach.  Possi 
bly  he  had  ;  possibly  the  rascal  had  tiptoed  over  the 
grass  to  make  his  coming  a  surprise.  Yes,  that  was  it. 


THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  Conic  in,"  Bess  called,  as  she  snatched  up  her 
needlework  and  commenced  to  sew  as  if  her  life  de 
pended  on  it.  No  one  stirred  on  the  doorstep. 

"Come  in,  and  I'll  forgive  you  for  frightening 
me,"  Bess  said  after  a  pause.  This  time  she  heard 
a  heel  grate  on  the  rough  stones. 

"  Open  the  door  and  walk  right  in  like  a  gentle 
man,"  was  the  girl's  next  command  as  she  assumed 
an  air  of  unconscious  ease  in  her  high-backed  rocker. 

At  this  the  door  was  softly  opened  and  held  just 
ajar :  Bess  rocked  to  and  fro  without  speaking. 

"  Missy  Bess." 

The  name  was  pronounced  in  a  tone  just  above  a 
whisper. 

The  girl  knew  Dick  Richards  was  at  her  thresh 
old.  She  rose  and  went  to  the  door  with  her  hand 
outstretched  as  if  she  were  groping  in  the  dark.  It 
was  not  fear  that  overcame  her,  for  had  she  been  in 
terror  of  her  visitor,  she  might  readily  have  shut  the 
door  in  his  face  and  barred  it.  She  thought  this 
out  as  she  steadied  herself  with  her  hands  at  the 
casings.  Looking  out  she  saw  the  negro,  cap  in 
hand,  standing  before  her. 

"  Missy  Bess,"  he  said,  nervously  turning  his  head 
to  the  right  and  left,  as  if  expecting  to  be  seen  or 
overheard,  "  I'se  done  come  hyer  to  ask  a  favour." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  191 

Dick  had  now  advanced  into  the  light.  Bess 
could  see  that  his  eyes  were  agleam  with  excitement, 
and  that  whatever  his  errand  was  it  concerned  him 
deeply.  Her  first  thought  was  that  he  might  be 
fleeing  from  justice  and  was  seeking  refuge  with 
her.  On  the  impulse  she  spoke. 

"  You're  a  free  man,  Dick,  and  ought  to  have  no 
fear  of  anybody.  You  know  all  our  hiding  places 
are  for  slaves.  I  don't  think  I  can  help  you  if  you  are 
in  trouble." 

"  Can't  help  me,  Missy  Bess?"  the  negro  said  in  a 
pleading  voice.  "  You  doan  know  what  you  says. 
I'se  in  a  heap  o'  trubble,  Missy  Bess — 'fore  de  Lor'  I 
is." 

Saying  this  the  man  fell  into  an  attitude  of  servi 
tude  that  ill  became  his  upright  figure  and  unde 
niably  handsome  face.  Bess  was  quick  to  note 
these  incongrous  elements  in  the  tableau,  and  her 
resolution  failed  under  the  subtle  influence.  Cer 
tainly  this  was  no  mendicant  to  be  turned  from  her 
door  with  a  crust  of  bread.  The  alert  eye  of  the 
negro  caught  again,  as  he  had  down  by  the  brook- 
side,  the  elusive  image  of  her  sympathy  as  it  was 
mirroured  in  her  gaze. 

"  You  done  tol'  me,"  he  said,  following  up  his  ad 
vantage,  "dat  you'd  nebber  forget  what  I  done  for 


192  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

you — and  him."  This  he  said  as  he  straightened 
himself  up  to  his  full  height  and  looked  calmly  into 
Bess's  eyes  as  if  he  had  offered  a  claim  he  had  a 
right  to  enforce. 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  it,  Dick.  What  is  it  that 
you  ask  me  to  do?  " 

"  Fse  jess  askin'  yer  to  help  a  yallah  gal  dat's 
runned  away  from  her  missy.  Dis  am  de  way  ob  it, 
Missy  Bess,  an'  fore  de  Lor'  I'm  tellin'  de  trut'." 

"Why  do  you  say  that,  Dick?  I  have  never 
doubted  you.  Go  on." 

"Yes,  Missy,  de  trut'.  She  done  come  from 
Louisany  wid  her  massa  and  missy,  an'  got  ter 
Syracuse,  whar  I  tol'  her  'bout  the  Promise'  Land, 
and  de  good  folks  dat  helps  de  poor  niggers.  So 
den  she  runned  away  wid  me.  But  now  she's  got 
'fraid  ob  suthin'  and  says  she'll  run  no  mo'  less 
I  done  took  her  somewhar'.  You  knows,  Missy 
Bess,  I  kin  hide  de  gal  so  de  ol'  debbil  hisself  won't 
fin'  her,  but  she  says  that  I'se  got  to  git  her  out  ob 
dis,  and  took  her  to  some  house  to  hide." 

"  When  did  she  escape  ?  "  Bess  asked.  There  was 
no  question  the  runaway  girl  had  found  a  friend. 

"  Jess  dey  for'  yisterday,"  the  negro  replied. 

"  You  came  here  together?" 

"  Yes,  Missy,  I  nebber  let  de  gal  git  'way  from  me." 

"  Where  is  she  now  ?  " 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  193 

"  I'll  took  you  darif  you  done  want  ter  go,  Missy 
Bess." 

"  Certainly  we'll  go,  Dick.  Just  step  out  of  sight 
behind  the  house  till  I  leave  word  that  I  am  going  out. 
If  anyone  comes  don't  stir.  I  won't  be  a  minute." 

As  the  negro  stepped  into  the  dark  shadows  of  the 
house  Bess  drew  the  door  shut  at  her  back.  When 
she  reappeared  she  sent  Dick  ahead  of  her,  and  as 
he  chose  the  least  frequented  paths  to  the  end  of  the 
village,  towards  which  he  took  his  way,  Bess  was  able 
to  follow  her  guide  unnoticed  to  the  creek  road,  into 
which  the  negro  turned,  having  put  a  great  maple  be 
tween  himself  and  a  passing  vehicle,  just  at  the  turn. 

Five  minutes  after  Bess  left  the  preacher's  house 
the  gravelled  walk  was  crunching  under  Win  Dis- 
brow's  hastening  footsteps.  The  candle  on  the  cen 
tre  table  needed  snuffing,  but  Mrs.  Disbrow  blew  it 
out  after  she  had  delivered  to  him  the  message  Bess 
had  so  hastily  entrusted  to  her. 

"Win  says  that  baby  at  Dover's  is  not  likely  to 
live,"  Mrs.  Disbrow  said  as  she  passed  through  the 
little  room  the  preacher  used  as  a  study.  "  He 
couldn't  have  stayed  to-night  anyway,  so  it  was  just 
as  well  Bess  went  out  for  a  walk.  I  think  that  I'd 
better  go  on  over  to  Dover's  to-morrow  morning  to 
see  if  I  can  do  anything  for  them." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

MR.  DlSBROW  dropped  his  pen  among  the  scat 
tered  sheets  of  an  unfinished  sermon,  and,  for  the 
third  time  within  an  hour,  walked  to  the  front  door 
to  peep  out  into  the  blackness  of  the  night. 

"  Mary,"  he  called  from  his  table  in  his  study, 
having  reseated  himself  there,  "  where  did  Bess  say 
she  was  going  ?  " 

"  For  a  walk,  she  said,"  came  the  drowsy  answer 
from  an  inner  room. 

"  Perhaps  I  had  better  go  over  to  Mr.  Gerritt's — 
she  is  probably  with  Dorothy — and  walk  back  with 
her.  I'm  not  getting  on  very  well  with  my  sermon, 
and  a  little  fresh  air  will  stimulate  me." 

"  Very  well,  dear." 

At  the  gate  as  the  preacher  sauntered  out  he 
came  face  to  face  with  Bess,  who,  on  a  run,  rushed 
panting  into  his  arms.  Through  the  veil  of  night, 
Mr.  Disbrow  could  not  see  the  girl's  face,  but:  a 
tremour  that  shook  her  lissome  form  as  he  held  her 
captive  a  moment  told  him  she  was  labouring  under 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  195 

a  severe  nervous  strain.  To  his  questions  beseech 
ing  an  explanation,  Bess  was  at  first  able  only  to 
gulp  her  breath.  With  an  effort  she  finally  forced 
a  reply  from  her  heaving  bosom. 

"  Has  she  come  ?  Is  a  strange  negro  girl  here  ?  " 
she  said. 

"  No,  no  one  but  Mary  is  in  the  house,"  the 
preacher  made  answer,  essaying  as  he  spoke  to  lead 
Bess  down  the  walk  towards  the  door.  "  What  has 
happened,  Bess?  Tell  me." 

Bess  was  holding  back  against  the  pressure  of  the 
preacher's  arm. 

"  We  must  stay  here ;  we  must  wait  for  her," 
Bess  said.  "  Where  else  can  she  go  ?  " 

"  Tell  me  what  has  happened  ?  Of  whom  are 
you  speaking?"  This  Mr.  Disbrow  said  with  some 
authority  in  his  voice. 

Then  the  preacher  and  the  girl  went  to  the  little 
steps  and  sat  down  on  the  flat  stone  that  formed  the 
tread.  Bess's  breath  was  coming  naturally,  and 
her  self-possession  had  returned.  First  she  narrated 
the  circumstances  of  Dick  Richards's  visit,  and,  as  a 
sequel  to  it,  how  the  negro  had  led  her  down  the 
creek  road  as  far  as  the  Pine  Tree  Spring,  where, 
relying  on  his  truth,  she  expected  to  find  the  mu 
latto  Gfirl  awaiting  their  aid. 


196  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"You  went  there  alone,  with  the  negro?"  the 
preacher  asked  in  evident  dismay  when  Bess  had 
got  as  far  as  this  with  her  story. 

She  simply  nodded  her  assent,  and  went  on. 
There  was  nobody  at  the  spring,  she  said,  though 
Dick  had  carefully  searched  the  locality  while  she 
kept  watch  under  the  pine-tree.  No  trace  of  the 
missing  girl  could  be  found. 

"You  trust  the  negro  ?"  Mr.  Disbrow  asked  in  a 
tone  that  implied  his  own  doubt  of  the  recital. 
"  You  think  he  told  you  the  truth  ?  " 

"  Why  should  he  not,  brother  ? "  Bess  replied. 
In  her  tone  there  was  beyond  question  unshaken 
confidence. 

"  Well,  well,"  the  preacher  said,  reassuringly, 
"let  us  believe  him,  if  you  will,  but  it  is  a  strange 
matter.  I  don't  know  what  to  think  about  it.  But 
why  do  you  imagine  the  girl  has  come  to  this 
house? " 

This  was  the  only  tenable  conclusion,  in  Bess's 
opinion,  for  the  negro  had  informed  the  mulatto 
girl  of  his  intention  to  solicit  help  at  her  hands. 
Their  names  were  known  to  the  poor  creature,  and 
in  the  hope  that  they  might  aid  her,  she  had  con 
sented  to  hide  at  the  Pine  Tree  Spring.  What  had 
taken  her  away  from  the  trysting  place  could  only 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  197 

be  conjectured.  If  frightened  away,  or  pursued, 
her  first  thought  would  be  of  those  friends  Dick 
had  made  known  to  her. 

"I  have  no  doubt  she  will  come  here,"  Bess 
insisted. 

"  She  will  be  welcome  if  she  comes,"  the  preacher 
made  reply.  "  But — 

A  suspicion  flitted  through  the  preacher's  mind 
that  was  left  unuttered.  Win  had  entered  the  gate, 
and  beside  him  walked  a  woman.  Bess  knew  the 
step  of  one  and  could  make  out  the  dress  of  the 
other  even  in  the  dark.  To  the  preacher  she  bent 
forward  to  say : 

"  Please  say  nothing  to  Win  of  what  has  hap 
pened — not  to-night." 

The  newcomers  were  met  by  a  questionless  wel 
come.  Mr.  Disbrow  had  opened  his  door,  and  in  at 
it  he  graciously  motioned  the  newcomers,  Bess  fol 
lowing  close  behind  to  light  the  candle.  Win's 
companion  was  a  mulatto  girl,  whose  furtive  glances 
from  face  to  face  as  she  looked  about  her  pictured 
an  extremity  of  fear.  Before  Win  had  time  to 
speak,  Bess  had  reached  forth  her  hand,  and  to  her 
the  trembling  creature  had  sidled,  confident  of 
security  in  the  proffered  shelter. 

"  Here's  someone,"  Win  said,  "  who  claims  your 


198  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

hospitality.  Her  case,  as  she  tells  me,  is  most  dis 
tressing.  I  regard  it  as  another  sign  of  the  right 
eousness  of  our  cause  that  it  was  my  fortune  to 
help  her.  Now  I  turn  her  over  to  you,  Bess,  dear. 
It  is  a  woman's  sympathy,  not  a  man's,  that  she 
needs.  Guard  her  closely  to-night,  and  we  will  see 
to-morrow  what  ought  to  be  done." 

Bess  took  the  mulatto  girl  by  the  hand  and  led 
her  to  the  study  door. 

"  Good-night,"  Win  said  to  the  stranger,  "  God 
bless  you,"  to  his  sweetheart.  Bess's  eyes  were 
streaming  with  tears  as  she  went  out  hand  in  hand 
with  the  girl. 

"  A  quarter  of  an  hour  ago,"  Win  said  when 
alone  with  the  preacher,  "  I  was  at  the  bedside  of  a 
little  child  who  was  hopelessly  ill.  All  that  science 
in  my  weak  hands  could  do  to  save  that  innocent 
life  had  failed.  I  knew  it,  and  with  mortification 
confessed  it  to  myself.  The  stricken  mother,  the 
heartbroken  father,  knelt  there  and  poured  out 
their  agony  in  prayer.  The  little  one  had  roused 
herself  from  an  unconsciousness  that  had  lasted  for 
days.  She  had  been  a  patient  sufferer,  but  the  sor 
row  of  leaving  those  who  loved  her,  and  whom  she 
loved,  was  breathed  into  a  faint  appeal  to  me — to 
me,  the  doctor!  whose  learning  and  whose  skill,  ah 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  I99 

me  !  she  and  they  believed  in— trusted.  «  Doctor,' 
the  little  one  said,  looking  into  my  face,  '  doctor, 
can't  you  save  my  life  ?  '  And  I  lied  to  that  little 
child  as  she  went  to  sleep  never  to  wake  again. 
Out  of  that  death  chamber  I  walked,  my  dear 
uncle,  a  beaten  man.  What  help  had  I  been  to 
that  afflicted  family  ?  What  use  my  years  of  study  ? 
A  doctor  of  medicine,  I !  No,  a  mixer  of  nos 
trums  !  Who  gave  me  the  right  to  heal  the  sick, 
I  said  to  myself,  whose  helplessness  had  been  so 
woefully  proved  ?  " 

"  Ah,  Win,  we  are  in  God's  hands  whether  sick  or 
well.  We  are  but  instruments  of  His  divine  power." 
"  I  hope  that  I  may  prove  to  be  so,"  Win  said, 
wiping  his  forehead.  "  I  am  trying  to  find  some 
consolation  in  the  case  of  this  wretched  girl.  She 
wandered  in  my  path  to-night  on  my  way  home.  I 
would  have  passed  her  by  had  she  not  said  she  was 
lost  and  looking  for  Bess.  Poor  thing,  she  called 
Bess  by  name,  and  begged  me  to  guide  her  hither. 
Part  of  her  story  she  told  me,  and  that  her  distress 
is  sore  there  is  no  doubt.  I  never  stretched  forth 
a  hand  to  a  fugitive  with  as  much  joy.  Coming 
from  that  little  child's  death-bed,  do  you  wonder, 
Uncle?  I  could  be  a  little  help  here.  This  girl 
calls  herself  Cherry  Lemoire,  and  she  has  escaped 


200  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

from  her  owner,  a  Louisiana  planter,  on  his  way 
with  his  family  to  Niagara  Falls.  Dick  Richards 
found  her  at  Syracuse,  and  persuaded  her  to  run 
away,  and  it  is  in  his  keeping — God  help  her — that 
she  has  been  since  she  fled  two  days  ago.  It  did  not 
take  her  long  to  find  that  she  had  fallen  into 
wrong  hands,  and  in  mortal  dread  she  took  the 
first  chance  to  elude  him  and  place  herself  under 
the  protection  of  Bess  and  you — she  had  your 
name  as  well — Richards  having  told  her  of  you 
both.  This  was  the  inducement  that  brought  her 
to  Smithboro,  after,  well — well — 

"  Mary  and  I  have  our  charge  safely  disposed  of 
for  the  night,"  Bess  was  saying  at  the  study 
door,  "  and  I  will  say  good-night."  A  kiss  for  each, 
one  a  trifle  fonder  than  the  other,  perhaps,  was 
the  only  supplement  to  the  parting.  The  preacher 
and  the  doctor  both  read  in  Bess's  face  that  Cherry 
Lemoire  had  told  her  story  to  her  new-found 
friend. 

It  followed  that  the  mulatto  girl  had  not  come 
among  them  for  a  day.  Her  disappearance  from 
Syracuse  had  created  something  like  a  sensation 
where,  during  her  stay  in  that  city,  her  beauty  had 
drawn  out  no  little  admiration.  Nature,  as  cruel  as 
she  is  kind,  had  done  for  this  slave  girl  what  would 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  201 

have  glorified  a  queen  ;  but  her  gifts  of  person  were 
shackled  when  they  might  have  been  sceptred. 
She  was  of  the  oriental  type,  languorously  graceful, 
formed  rather  for  the  sultan's  divan  than  for  the 
sculptor's  pedestal.  She  had  the  odalisque's  eyes, 
big  and  round  and  dreamy,  and  her  skin,  of  the  text 
ure  of  velvet  and  the  color  of  sunburn,  felt  the 
warmth  of  the  sensuous  glow  that,  like  an  unkindled 
fire,  lay  hidden  under  silken  lashes  awaiting  a  breath 
to  blow  it  into  flame.  The  editor  who,  in  a  printed 
report  of  the  slave  girl's  disappearance,  spoke  of 
her  as  "  the  tall  poppy  of  Dixieland  "  had  poetry  in 
his  soul.  Cherry  came  to  Bess  a  ragged  outcast, 
bedraggled  by  travel  and  weary  in  body — without  a 
single  artifice  of  the  toilet,  yet  a  beautiful  woman. 
But  it  was  a  bondwoman's  beauty,  and  it  was  her 
curse.  As  a  slave  she  clung  to  Bess  with  a  slave's 
despair. 

By  Mr.  Calvert,  the  planter,  whose  entourage  had 
been  bereft  by  the  loss  of  the  girl,  it  was  declared 
that  she  had  been  kidnapped,  and  on  that  theory 
he  put  forth  an  offer  of  a  princely  reward  for  the 
detection  of  her  captors.  This  offer,  he  doubled, 
when  at  last  he  was  forced  to  proceed  on  his  way 
without  her.  This  he  did  after  sending  a  signed 
letter  to  the  newspapers,  bitterly  inveighing  against 


202  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

an  abuse  of  hospitality  that  he  said  had  cast  his 
household  in  deepest  gloom  and  would  leave  a  scar 
on  the  hearts  of  the  little  children  to  whom  the 
slave  was  as  dear  as  a  sister. 

"As  a  Southern  gentleman,"  he  wrote,  "  I  do  not 
expect  to  find  sympathy  in  the  North  with  the 
system  under  which  this  girl  was  retained  in  my 
service  ;  neither  do  I  hope  to  convince  the  people 
of  the  North  that  under  this  dispensation  she  was 
as  happy  as  she  would  have  been  had  she  been  born 
in  freedom  (though  that  is  God's  truth)  ;  but  had  I 
not  the  right,  as  the  guest  of  the  North,  going  about 
minding  my  own  business,  to  ask  protection  against 
common  thievery  ?  The  girl  Cherry  is  not  a  run 
away  ;  she  has  been  unwillingly  kidnapped,  and  by 
misguided  fanatics,  or  worse  (I  care  not  which),  and 
is  held  in  bondage  against  her  wish  ;  and  who  can 
say  for  what  vile  purpose  ?  It  is  against  this  outrage 
upon  the  laws  of  universal  hospitality  that  I  lodge 
my  protest  as  I  leave  your  city." 

When  Mr.  Calvert's  letter  was  read  by  Mr.  Dis- 
brow,  he  at  once  decided  to  leave  it  to  Cherry  to  say 
what  disposition  should  be  made  of  her.  If  it  were 
true,  as  he  half  suspected  might  be  the  case,  that 
her  flight  was  either  forced  or  regretted,  it  would 
be  his  part  to  restore  her  to  her  master  and  mistress. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  203 

To  this  reasonable  proposition  both  Win  and  Bess 
cordially  assented. 

"  No  sah,  Massa  Disbrow,  no  sail,"  the  slave  girl 
responded  when  the  matter  was  laid  before  her.  "Dis 
hyar's  good  nuff  for  dis  chile.  All  I  asks,  honey," 
she  said  turning  to  Bess  and  catching  up  a  wisp  of 
her  dress  as  if  it  were  a  tie  to  bind,  "  all  I  asks  am 
dat  I  nebber  see  that  nigger  Richards  agin,  nebber, 
nebber." 

So  for  the  present,  it  was  decided  Cherry  was  to 
remain  in  hiding  where  she  was. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

"  WASN'T  that  Spruce  Jim  Dick  Richards  I  seen 
hangin'  round  the  parson's  house  last  night  ? " 
queried  Clem  Jones  one  night  of  this  eventful  week. 
A  row  of  kindred  spirits  had  taken  possession  of  the 
tavern  steps.  You  might  predict  the  advent  of  the 
seasons  by  the  desertion  or  occupancy  of  the  tavern 
steps  as  surely  as  by  the  migration  of  the  birds. 
The  gossiping  villagers  had  come  back  to  the  old 
stand  with  the  first  robin  red-breast. 

"  It  looked  mighty  like  him,"  the  landlord  of  the 
Lafayette  Hotel  added,  "  but  I  wa'n't  quite  sure." 

"  I  thought  we'd  got  rid  o'  that  critter,"  remarked 
Haskins  the  barber,  "  but  I  ain't  sayin'  he  ain't  got 
as  much  right  here's  the  next  feller,  seein'  this  is  a 
free  country." 

"  Ain't  nobuddy  seen  the  feller  ?  "  Jones  ventured 
to  ask  again. 

"  I  hain't,  hain't  you  ?"  one  of  the  group  replied, 
and  in  this  quaint  form  the  inquiry  went  down  the 
line  without  verifying  the  landlord's  suspicions. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  205 

Lyme  Disbrow's  back  was  braced  against  one  of 
the  colonial  posts  of  the  portico,  his  legs  at  the  ac 
customed  angle,  his  lips  pursed  and  his  cheeks  blown 
out  as  if  in  each  he  held  a  Jackson  ball.  He  was 
whistling  "  She's  bound  to  run  all  night,"  which  is 
to  say  that  he  was  in  no  mood  for  idle  talk.  Yet 
he  had  pricked  up  his  ears  when  the  question  of 
Dick  Richards's  whereabouts  had  been  casually 
broached.  By  Win  it  had  been  made  known  to  the 
picture-taker  that  the  negro  had  guided  Cherry  to 
Smithboro.  In  all  probability,  it  was  agreed,  he  was 
skulking  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  village,  with 
the  intention  of  seeking  the  first  opportunity  to 
claim  the  right  to  pass  her  on  to  Canada.  As  an 
agent  of  the  Underground  Railroad  he  could  press 
this  claim.  As  Win  implicitly  relied  upon  the 
veracity  of  the  negress,  Dick's  motive,  the  young 
doctor  was  convinced,  was  of  the  worst,  and  to  keep 
her  out  of  Dick's  clutches  was  his  stern  resolve. 
Lyme's  compassionate  nature  caused  him  to  put  by 
a  theory  on  which  he  would  have  urged  his  son  to 
a  different  course,  namely,  that  the  best  way  to  be 
rid  of  Dick  Richards,  for  good  and  all,  was  to  con 
nive  at  his  abduction  of  the  slave  girl.  It  was  be 
cause  Win  was  absolutely  without  information 
touching  Dick's  movements  that  his  father  was  heed- 


206  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

ing  the  chit-chat  of  the  tavern  steps.  Win  and 
Bess  had  not  spoken  of  the  negro  for  obvious  rea 
sons,  but  it  was  understood  between  them  that  he 
was  as  much  to  be  feared  as  those  who  might  at 
any  moment  come  looking  for  the  slave  girl.  The 
planter's  offer  of  a  great  reward  had  whetted  the  in 
terest  of  the  pursuers  to  a  keen  edge.  A  watch  was 
kept  on  Smithboro  by  more  than  one  man  who 
stole  in  and  out  of  the  village  in  the  guise  of  a 
drover  or  colporteur.  One  of  the  slave  hunters  ac 
tually  covered  his  mission  by  peddling  Bibles  from 
door  to  door,  but  timely  warning  of  this  fellow's 
identity  was  furnished  by  Dick,  who  after  that  had 
been  invisible  even  to  Bess. 

A  month  slipped  by,  and  the  negress  was  still  of 
the  preacher's  household.  The  wedding  of  Win  and 
Bess  was  not  far  off,  and  Cherry's  dexterity  with 
needle  and  thread  brought  her  within  the  charmed 
circle.  She  begged  like  a  child  asking  for  sweet 
meats  to  be  allowed  to  have  a  small  part  in  the 
preparations,  and  when,  as  once  or  twice  happened, 
there  was  talk  of  attempting  to  get  her  away  to 
Canada,  she  was  on  the  point  of  open  rebellion.  She 
would  have  attached  herself  to  Bess  for  all  time 
with  all  the  joy  in  the  world  had  she  been  given  her 
way. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  207 

"  I  doan  want  to  go  to  no  Promise'  Land,"  Cherry 
said.  "  What  dis  chile  wants  am  to  stay  right  hyar 
wid  yo',  honey,  jess  as  if  yo'  was  Missy  Calvert.  I 
doan  want  to  be  free,  no  mo'.  Yo'  jess  keep  me, 
honey,  an',  golly,  I'll  be  a  good  chile,  suah,  honey." 

In  vain  Bess  tried  to  explain  to  the  girl  that  this 
would  be  slavery — idealized  slavery,  perhaps,  but 
slavery  just  the  same — and  that  in  the  end  she  must 
be  retaken  by  her  owner,  or  forwarded  to  a  place  of 
safety.  The  law,  as  well  as  her  own  aversion  to  ser 
vitude,  Bess  endeavoured  to  make  clear,  would  not 
permit  them  to  be  together.  Then  Cherry  would 
burst  into  tears,  and  in  rage  berate  her  protectress 
for  lack  of  heart,  or  in  agony  beseech  her  to  let  her 
rest  in  it  forever. 

"  I  jess  can't  go  'way,"  she  would  cry,  "  I  can't, 
honey.  If  I  does,  an'  yo'  makes  me,  den  I  go  wid 
dat  nigger,  Dick  Richards,  and  den  I'm  a  gone 
nigger,  suah." 

"  You  mustn't  call  yourself  by  that  name,"  Bess 
always  admonished  Cherry  when  she  spoke  thus 
contemptuously  of  herself. 

"  I  is  a  nigger,  honey  ;  I  is  a  nigger,"  she  insisted, 
"  an'  dat's  why  you  doan  want  to  have  me  'bout  yo'." 

Then  the  white  girl  would  take  the  slave  girl  in 
her  arms  to  prove  the  warmth  <>f  her  affection,  as 


208  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

well  as  to  vindicate  the  North,  as  she  merrily  put  it, 
from  the  aspersion  of  insincerity  that  was  often 
levelled  at  the  advocates  of  emancipation. 

This  pretty  scene  was  enacted  over  and  over  again 
while  they  all  waited  for  the  ringing  of  the  wedding 
bells.  Usually  as  an  end  to  it  Cherry  would  go 
about  the  daily  tasks  she  had  assumed,  singing  a 
song  of  the  South,  plaintive,  sweet,  mournful  : 

"  I  went  to  see  Ginny  when  my  work  was  done, 
As  she  put  de  hoe-cake  on,  my  love, 
And  Ginny  put  de  hoe-cake  on ; 
An  Massa  he  saunt  an'  called  me  away 
'Fore  Ginny  got  the  hoe-cake  on,  my  love, 
'Fore  Ginny  got  de  hoe-cake  done." 

Bess  could  not  keep  the  girl  quiet  when  she  was 
in  these  moods,  and  hence  was  in  constant  dread 
lest  her  presence  be  betrayed  to  the  enemy  they 
feared. 

"  Hush  yo'  noise,  yo'  fool  nigger,"  Cherry  would 
answer  back,  when  warned  of  the  danger,  and  then 
she  would  laugh  in  glee  as  a  child  laughs. 

Win  had  made  up  his  mind  at  last  that  the  time 
had  come  to  forward  the  slave  girl  out  of  the 
country.  To  the  successful  accomplishment  of  this 
end  he  had  been  lately  in  communication  with  his 
friends  on  the  line  of  the  Underground  Railroad, 
and  had  opened  the  way  through  to  the  point:  of 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  209 

embarkation  on  Lake  Ontario.  At  designated 
stations  Cherry  was  to  be  met  by  men  he  trusted  to 
be  harboured  at  night  under  their  roofs.  The  plan 
was  to  take  her  over  the  route  in  broad  daylight, 
once  she  was  safely  away  from  Smithboro,  this 
being  thought  the  best  course  in  order  to  disarm 
suspicion.  Cherry  was  to  be  passed  off  as  a  white 
woman.  Win  was  to  cover  the  first  stage  of  the 
journey  himself,  and  it  remained  only  to  persuade 
the  girl  that  her  separation  from  Bess  was  impera 
tive,  when  he  received  the  astounding  information 
that  in  every  detail  his  plans  were  known  to  Dick 
Richards. 

Dick  himself  made  the  revelation.  The  men  en 
countered  each  other  outside  the  preacher's  house. 
Night  had  fallen  and  they  talked  unobserved.  Win 
would  have  pushed  by  had  not  the  negro,  who  had 
evidently  been  lying  in  wait,  posted  himself  directly 
in  the  young  doctor's  path. 

"  Fse  come  to  talk  with  you,"  Dick  said,  when 
Win  halted  in  front  of  him,  "  an'  you's  got  to  talk 
to  me." 

"  Well  ?  "  Win  answered  coldly  enough,  but  at 
the  same  time  allowing  the  word  to  imply  his  will 
ingness  to  listen.  It  was  this  man,  he  remembered, 
who  had  saved  Peter  Gerritt's  life  in  Syracuse. 


210  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  I'se  not  goin'  to  'low  you  to  steal  dat  gal  in  dar 
from  me,"  the  negro  said,  bending  his  head  signifi 
cantly  towards  the  little  clapboarded  house.  "  She 
ain't  goin'  to  be  run  off  'less  I  go  'long  too.  I'se 
done  'spect  you  know  me,  when  I  done  tell  you." 

"  Well  ?  "  Win  repeated  as  his  jaws  set  hard  to 
gether. 

"  No  sah,  Doctah  Disbro',"  Dick  continued  ; 
"  When  dat  'ere  gal  goes,  dis  nigger  goes,  an'  I  doan 
understan'  you  t'ought  o'  dat.  So  dey  done  tell  me 
'long  de  line,  whar  I'se  bin  clarin  de  track  'fore  you 
begun." 

The  negro  had  been  speaking  in  an  unguarded 
voice.  Dropping  his  tone  several  pitches  lower  he 
mentioned  the  names  of  a  half-dozen  men  whose 
connection  with  Win's  present  exploit  left  no 
question  of  the  negro's  secret  knowledge. 

"  So  you  have  been  playing  the  spy  ?  "  exclaimed 
Win.  By  a  supreme  effort  he  curbed  the  inclina 
tion  to  strike  the  man  in  the  face.  It  was  the  same 
feeling  that  possessed  him  down  by  the  creek.  Win 
would  have  ended  the  conversation  then  and  there, 
but  Dick  Richards  threw  his  stalwart  body  between 
the  gate-posts  and  held  the  path. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  doctor  for  the  third  time. 

"You  can't  scar'  me,  'fore  de  Lor',yo'  can't,"  Dick 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  211 

said.  "  Dat  gal's  mine,  and  you  can't  steal  her 
'way  from  me.  I  done  took  her  'way  from  Syracuse, 
an'  I'se  goin'  to  took  her  to  Canady.  She's  fur  me, 
not  fur  you." 

This  the  negro  hissed  through  his  teeth  in  a  way 
that  implied  a  world  of  things  unuttered. 

"  Hound  !  "  Win  answered,  as  with  both  hands  he 
forced  a  passage  at  the  gate.  "  I  warn  you  never  to 
cross  my  path  again — do  you  hear  ?  " 

"  If  I  done  keep  off  it,"  Dick  shouted  after  him, 
"  If  I  does,  Missy  Bess  won'  have  no  nigger  to  tote 
you,  nex'  time  you  git  you'  ole  head  cracked,  an'  is 
bein'  kicked  to  pieces." 

Win  stopped  short  on  the  gravelled  path.  He 
recalled  the  mob  at  the  Jerry  Rescue. 

"  Was  it  you  ?  "  he  asked,  half  frightened  lest  he 
hear  the  truth. 

"  Ask  Missy  Bess,"  was  what  the  negro  replied, 
and  this  was  all,  for  he  was  out  of  view  in  an  in 
stant. 

Win  stood  on  the  stone  steps  to  collect  his  senses. 
No  purpose  would  be  served  were  he  to  relate  to 
Bess  what  had  just  transpired,  so  he  thought,  and  he 
decided  to  let  the  incident  pass.  He  was  keeping 
faith  with  himself  with  respect  to  the  negro.  There 
must  be  no  clouds  in  his  sky  on  his  wedding  day. 


212  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

More  important  than  all,  to  his  mind,  was  to  per 
suade  Cherry  to  leave  Smithboro  as  he  had  planned. 
Her  consent  must  be  obtained  that  night,  for  the 
date  had  been  definitely  fixed  for  her  departure. 
Bess  wept  bitter  tears  at  thought  of  what  was  to 
come,  and  at  last,  when  the  slave  girl  was  called, 
that  she  might  hear  that  the  decision  was  irrevo 
cable,  Bess  began  to  comprehend  what  Mr.  Calvert 
meant  when  he  addressed  his  letter  to  the  people 
of  the  North  after  Cherry's  flight. 

"Oh,  Win,"  she  sobbed  as  her  head  reclined  on 
his  shoulder,  "  who  knows  what  grief  has  been  caused 
in  the  execution  of  what  we  believe  to  be  our  holy 
work.  I  confess  that  this  girl  has  entwined  her 
self  about  my  heart,  as  probably  thousands  of  other 
slaves  have  done  in  Southern  homes.  Mr.  Calvert 
wrote  in  his  letter  that  his  children  would  sorrow 
till  death  for  Cherry  and  I  know  now  he  told  the 
truth.  Are  we  right  after  all  ?  " 

"  Every  great  right  is  achieved,"  the  doctor  said, 
"  by  the  doing  of  little  wrongs.  This  is  one  of 
them,  no  doubt.  If  we  could  only  buy  this  girl's 
freedom,  it  would  be  well,  but  such  a  reward  as  is 
offered  for  her  makes  her  money  value  beyond 
reach.  We  must  send  her  back  to  Mr.  Calvert  or 
to  Canada.  That  is  the  alternative." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  213 

The  misery  of  this  night !  The  slave  girl  could 
see  nothing  but  wilful  cruelty  in  it.  She  would 
not  believe  otherwise  than  that  she  was  being  ruth 
lessly  driven  from  the  door  of  those  to  whom  her 
heart  had  gone  out  in  the  very  ecstasy  of  love. 
She  upbraided  and  caressed  Bess  in  turn  as  she  was 
storm-tossed  on  the  billows  of  her  own  agony. 

"  I'se  jess  a  nigger,"  Cherry  cried  at  last,  as  a 
strange  light  flashed  in  those  dreamy  eyes,  "  a  no 
'count  nigger.  I'll  go." 

In  a  state  of  sullen  resignation  the  slave  girl  swept 
out  of  the  room.  Bess  hardly  in  better  temper 
followed  to  console  and  help  her  prepare  for  the 
dismal  to-morrow. 

Past  midnight  Mr.  Disbrow  was  startled  from  his 
sleep  by  a  noise  he  thought  sounded  like  the  slam 
ming  of  a  door.  It  was  raining  hard,  and  the  wind 
was  astir. 

"  The  front  door  was  unlatched,"  the  preacher 
said  when  he  crept  back  to  bed,  his  wife  having 
asked  what  the  matter  was.  "  Doubtless  Bess  for 
got  to  lock  it.  Poor  girl,  no  wonder ;  this  has  been 
a  hard  night  for  her." 


CHAPTER  XX. 

OLD  IRONSIDES  was  taking  his  own  time  on  the 
Lakeport  road.  Daylight  was  not  an  hour  old 
when  he  took  up  the  way.  Lyme's  face  was  at  the 
front  window  of  the  picture-wagon,  framed  in  an 
upturned  collar,  for  there  was  still  a  nip  and  tingle 
in  the  morning  air.  The  picture-taker  was  talking 
to  his  horse. 

"  Look  here,  now,"  he  was  saying,  "  you'll  have 
to  hump  your  back  a  leetle,  you  old  bag-o'-bones, 
or  darn  me  if  I  don't  swap  you  for  the  fust  mud- 
turtle  that  comes  'long  this  road.  Don't  you  know 
I  ain't  got  no  time  to  waste  on  this  trip — that  I've 
got  to  be  back  hum  afore  next  week  Thursday  so's 
to  be  at  a  weddin'  that  I've  got  some  perticular  in- 
t'rest  in?  If  we  go  dawdlin'  along  like  o'  this,  the 
fust  thing  you  know  you'll  wake  up  in  the  snow 
drifts  next  winter." 

Lyme  took  up  the  slack  in  the  reins  and  snapped 
them  on  the  horse's  back.  Old  Ironsides  straight 
ened  his  legs  and  bent  forward  against  the  hames. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  215 

After  this  spasmodic  effort  he  began  to  lag  once 
more. 

"You'll  have  to  do  some  better'n  that,"  Lyme 
said,  "  or,  doggone  me  !  I'll  slit  your  blinders  so's 
you  kin  see  this  gad,  an'  if  it  comes  to  that,  I'll 
tickle  your  hide  so's  you'll  think  fly-time's  come 
sooner  than  expected.  You  ain't  drawin'  hard 
'nough,  no  sir,  not  hard  'nough  to  pull  a  settin'  hen 
off  her  nest.  Doggone  it!  didn't  I  tell  you  I'd  got 
to  be  hum  for  a  weddin'  ? — a  weddin',  I  said,  'twa'n't 
no  funeral.  Gid  ap." 

This  time  the  upraised  reins  flattened  on  the 
horse's  back  with  a  vicious  crack.  Leather  and 
hide  had  been  softened  by  a  copious  drip  of  rain 
water  from  the  overhanging  trees,  so  that  in  their 
contact  there  must  have  been  a  sting  like  a  botfly's, 
for  Old  Ironsides  suddenly  broke  into  a  lively  trot. 

"  Now  you're  talkin',"  the  picture-taker  said 
encouragingly.  "  Looks  now  's  if  we'd  get  some  of 
that  weddin'  cake.  Next  time  we  come  this  way 
we'll  stop  an'  look  at  scenery,  but  jest  no\v,  dog 
gone  it,  we've  got  to  be  up  an'  doin'  over  yender, 
an'  then  back  hum  lickety-switch  for  the  weddin'. 
I  do  believe,"  Lyme  remarked,  as  if  other  ears  than 
the  horse's  were  listening,  "  that  old  boss  knows 
this  is  one  of  the  clays  you  read  'bout." 


216  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Of  a  truth  there  was  much  that  lay  under  their 
eyes  that  might  enthrall  the  gaze  of  man  or  beast. 
The  night's  downpour  had  left  a  gloss  as  of  bur 
nished  steel  on  the  glorious  countryside.  The  sun, 
which  had  risen  in  a  pinkish  mist,  was  tipping 
every  raindrop  with  a  diamond  glint.  Every  blade 
of  grass  wore  a  sparkling  jewel,  every  moistened 
leaf  a  diadem  of  them.  There  was  not  a  breath  of 
wind  in  the  air,  so  that  the  morning  came  forth  as 
if  decked  for  a  bridal  festival.  It  was  a  picture 
that  Lyme  was  filling  in  with  pretty  details.  The 
plodding  horse  shook  down  the  opalescent  drops 
that  gemmed  the  overhanging  boughs,  and  he 
marked  their  fall  for  showers  of  happiness.  Every 
hollow  in  the  road  held  a  pool  of  water  that,  like  a 
chain  of  mirrors,  caught  the  first  blushes  of  the  morn, 
as  they  must  have  done,  he  thought,  when  in  the 
glare  of  lightning  Night  put  on  her  wedding  clothes. 

"  Hold  on  there !  "  Lyme  shouted,  as*  he  jerked 
hard  at  the  bit.  He  had  come  suddenly  out  of  his 
reverie.  "Don't  you  know  nuthin',  you  old  fool. 
It's  bad  luck  to  smash  a  lookin '-glass.  I  thought 
you  knew  suthin'." 

Old  Ironsides  had  been  spattering  down  the  road 
unmindful  of  the  poetry  of  the  thing.  He  had 
splintered  into  atoms  every  fairy  mirror  in  his  way. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  217 

But  his  owner's  rebuke  was  undeserved.  He  was 
knowing  enough.  So  knowing  indeed  was  the 
horse  that  if  he  had  minded  nothing  but  the  driver's 
clucking  and  urging,  there  would  have  been  trouble 
ahead  this  morning  ;  for  with  a  wedding  inarch  sing 
ing  in  his  head  Lyme  did  not  hear,  nor  did  he  see,  a 
stalwart  figure  of  a  man  who  stepped  into  the  road 
to  hail  him  as  he  passed.  It  was  at  a  bend  where  a 
heavy  growth  of  timber  alongside  afforded  ample 
shelter. 

Old  Ironsides  came  up  with  stiffened  knees  and 
ears  thrown  forward,  jolting  Lyme  backward  into 
the  wagon. 

"  What's  to  pay?  "  he  cried,  as  he  poked  his  face 
out  of  the  window.  Dick  Richards  was  blocking  the 
way.  Lyme  stared  at  the  negro  until  he  had  fully 
expended  his  astonishment.  "  Well  I  guess  hell's 
to  pay,"  he  continued,  "  and,  by  cracky,  there's  no 
pitch  hot." 

"  Mornin',  Mistah  Disbro,'  "  the  negro  said,  as  he 
reached  up  and  caught  Old  Ironsides  in  the  velvety 
hair  above  the  nostrils,  and  while  seeming  to  fondle 
the  horse  held  him  as  if  he  were  in  a  halter.  "  I'se 
done  been  waitin'  fur  you,  ca'se  I  kinder  thought 
you'd  go  fur  to  help  a  feller  'long:  yes  sah,  dat's 
what  I  thought." 


2i8  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  Look  a  here,  Richards,"  Lyme  replied  ;  "  Seems 
to  me  I've  done  jest  about  as  much  for  you  as 
there's  any  call  fur.  Jest  to  please  somebudcly  else  I 
turned  the  old  wagon  into  a  cattle  cart,  an'  took  you 
in,  an'  no  good  come  of  it,  either.  Did  there,  now  ?  " 

"  Guess  I'se  been  a  heap  o'  trubble,"  said  the  ne 
gro.  "  Niggers  am  born  to  trubble." 

"Trouble,  eh?"  Lyme  answered,  "Trouble? 
you're  jest  seventeen  times  trouble  and  carry  one ; 
that's  what  you  are.  The  day  I  set  you  down  over 
yender  on  the  Perryville  road,  when  they  wanted  to 
put  the  law  onto  you,  I  told  you,  didn't  I,  that  I  never 
wanted  to  see  you  agin  ?  Well,  what  I  said  I 
meant.  Niggers  ain't  in  my  line." 

The  picture-taker  had  gathered  up  the  reins  in 
his  hands  and  had  screwed  his  mouth  for  the  start 
ing  word.  Richards's  wiry  fingers  were  still  in  the 
hollows  of  the  horse's  nose. 

"  Fse  not  askin'  nuthin'  fur  dis  hyer  poor  nigger," 
he  said.  "  All  I  wants  yo'  fur  to  do  am  to  go  fur 
to  carry  a  gal  in  dis  hyer  wagon.  She's  done  tired 
out,  dat's  what  she  am,  and  can't  walk  no  furder — 
'fore  de  Lor'  she  can't." 

Lyme  slackened  the  strain  on  the  bit,  and,  as  far 
as  his  position  at  the  window  would  admit,  looked 
about  him. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  219 

"  See  here  now,  Mr.  Black  Man,"  the  picture-taker 
remarked,  when  his  eyes  finally  rested  on  Richards's 
face,  "  if  there's  any  gal  who'd  trust  herself  in  your 
clutches  out  here  in  the  woods,  you'd  better  let  me 
have  a  look  at  her,  for  I  ain't  got  time  to  linger." 

A  rustle  of  the  undergrowth  at  the  side  of  the 
road  showered  the  glistening  moisture  to  her  feet,  as 
Cherry  Lemoire  came  forward,  her  skirts  dripping 
at  the  hem.  On  her  face  and  hands  the  rain-drenched 
foliage  had  left  a  spray  as  she  came  through  it. 
Lyme's  first  thought  was  that  the  girl  had  been 
crying. 

Even  after  a  closer  glance  assured  him  that  Cherry 
was  not  making  this  mute  appeal  to  him,  he  was 
not  insensible  to  her  other  claims,  for,  bedraggled  as 
she  was,  her  beauty  stood  the  test  of  evident  de 
spair.  He  was  moved  to  pity  in  an  instant. 

"  I  take  you  to  be  that  gal  that  was  over  to 
the  parson's,"  Lyme  said  pleasantly.  "  There 
couldn't  have  been  two  like  you,  though  they  never 
showed  you  off  when  I  was  round.  Ain't  that  so, 
my  gal  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Massa,"  the  negress  made  reply. 

"  Hit  it  the  fust  time,"  Lyme  said,  "  an'  you 
want  to  ride  'long  with  me,  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sah." 


220  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  And  where  might  you  be  goin'  ?  " 

"  I'se  done  takin'  her  to  Canady,  Mistah  Disbro'," 
Dick  Richards  put  in  before  the  girl  could  reply.  "  I 
wouldn't  lie  to  yo',  sah,  nohow, — she's  a  slave  gal, 
Mistah  Disbro',  an'  am  runnin'  away." 

"  You  shut  your  mouth,"  Lyme  blurted  out, 
"  an'  let  the  gal  speak." 

Cherry  proved  willing  enough  to  plead  her  own 
case.  This  she  did  in  a  few  simple  words.  With 
all  haste,  she  said,  she  desired  to  get  to  the  Promised 
Land.  She  acknowledged  that  she  had  set  out  on 
this  journey  unbeknown  to  those  who  had  be 
friended  her  at  Smithboro,  but  gave  as  a  reason  for 
her  precipitate  flight  that  her  hiding  place  had  been 
discovered,  and  that,  rather  than  imperil  her  friends, 
she  had  determined  to  seek  safety  on  her  own 
account.  When  her  recital  was  done  Lyme  was  not 
quite  sure  what  part  Dick  Richards  was  playing  in  the 
adventure.  From  the  things  left  unsaid  he  never 
theless  drew  the  conclusion  that  the  girl  might  be  in 
as  much  dread  of  her  guide  as  she  was  of  herpursuers. 

"  I  jest  got  my  fill  of  this  Underground  business," 
Lyme  said,  as  if  cogitating  upon  the  chance  of  help 
ing  the  girl,  "  when  I  sneaked  out  of  Smithboro 
with  that  feller."  He  was  pointing  at  Dick.  "I 
jest  got  my  fill  then,  but  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do — 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  221 

both  on  you  :  if  I  take  the  gal  as  far  as  I  go,  an' 
then  see  her  started  so's  she  can't  go  wrong,  it's 
'cause  I  want  to  get  rid  of  you  both,  for  well  an' 
good— well  an'  good,  d'ye  hear?  " 

In  one  voice  the  two  negroes  promptly  acqui 
esced.  Then  of  a  sudden  Richards  asked: 

"  Whar  you  done  goin'  to  take  her?  " 

"  Maybe  here  an'  maybe  there,"  Lyme  said.  "  It 
ain't  no  truck  o'yourn,  anyways  you  put  it.  When 
that  gal  gits  into  this  old  shay  you  say  good-bye.  I 
don't  see  no  limit  to  the  trimmins  you  fix  onto  it, 
but  you  say  good-bye.  An'  the  gal  she  says  the 
same.  She  goes  to  the  Promised  Land,  as  you  call 
it,  where  the  wicked  cease  from  troublin'  an'  the 
weary  are  at  rest.  You,  nigger,  git  up  an'  git — 
anywhere  so's  you  don't  never  show  your  phiz  in 
Smithboro.  Is  it  a  bargain  ?  " 

Cherry's  joyous  assent  to  the  plan  gave  the  pic 
ture-taker  a  double  assurance  that  his  first  guess 
was  right.  Dick  was  much  less  positive  in  his  prom 
ise  to  live  up  to  the  agreement ;  but  he  gave  it,  and 
Lyme  accepted  it  for  what  it  was  worth. 

Saying  nothing  but  a  hurried  word  of  farewell  to 
her  companion,  the  negro  girl  went  into  the  picture- 
wagon.  Dick  would  have  prolonged  the  parting, 
and  made  as  if  to  do  so,  but  Cherry  forestalled  this 


222  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

intention  by  stepping  briskly  into  the  door  when 
Lyme  opened  it  from  the  inside.  Dick  would  have 
held  her  by  the  hand  had  she  been  less  alert.  As 
it  was  he  tried  to  whisper  to  her,  but  without  avail. 
Lyme  closed  and  fastened  the  door. 

"  Now  scoot !  "  he  shouted  to  the  negro  from  the 
front  window,  out  of  which  he  put  his  head,  and 
thrusting  a  long-lashed  whip  through  the  frame  he 
laid  it  smartly  on  the  horse's  flanks.  Old  Ironsides 
darted  off  as  if  stung  by  a  wasp. 

"  Squat  down  somewheres,"  Lyme  said  to  Cherry, 
as  the  wagon  jolted  along,  "  an'  hang  on  by  your 
finger-nails,  for  I've  got  to  make  up  the  time  we've 
fooled  away." 

Cherry  was  balancing  herself  in  the  narrow  space 
as  best  she  could,  while  she  looked  backward  through 
a  side  window.  She  had  not  heeded  the  picture- 
taker's  admonition. 

"  Squat,  will  you,"  he  repeated,  "  or  the  fust  thing 
you  know  you'll  be  doin'  circus  tricks,  an'  I  ain't  got 
no  liniment  handy." 

"  Yes,  massa,"  Cherry  turned  to  say,  "  I'se  goin' 
to  do  jess  as  yo'  say.  I'se  jess  wonderin'  what  for 
dat  fool  nigger  war  standin'  dar  so  long  time.  He 
hain't  lifted  his  big  hoof  yit — jess's  standin'  dar  lik' 
nuffin'  dat's  livin'.' 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  223 

'  The  deader  the  better,"  was  Lyme's  laconic  re 
joinder. 

"  Massa  Disbro',"  the  girl  said,  "  if  he  done  foller 
dis  hyar  wagon,  den  what  am  we  uns  goin'  to  do? 

"  We  uns  am  goin'  out  o'  the  Underground  busi 
ness,"  Lyme  replied,  imitating  the  girl's  dialect. 
"An'  you  uns— you  an'  him— well,  I'll  jest  dump 
you  in  the  ditch  an'  hump  'long  on  my  own  hook. 
A  bargain's  a  bargain,  sis,  an'  if  that  nigger  breaks 
his  end  on  it,  I'm  through  for  good." 

As  if  the  girl's  remark  had  suggested  a  new  idea 
to  him,  Lyme  pulled  the  horse  to  a  walk,  the  better 
to  continue  the  conversation. 

"I  don't  want  no  gum  games  played  on  me,"  he 
went  on  to  say.  "  I'll  help  you  run  away  from  him, 
but  I  won't  help  you  to  run  away  together.  Dog 
gone  it !  I'm  doin'  this  anyway  to  git  you  both  out 
of  Smithboro,  but  more  perticularly  him.  The 
seven  years'  itch  ain't  a  flea  bite  to  that  nigger  o* 
yourn." 

"  He  ain't  my  nigger,  nohow,"  Cherry  made 
answer  with  a  saucy  toss  of  her  head.  "  I  doan 
want  to  see  him  nevah  no  mo'." 

Lyme  was  looking  at  the  girl,  and  in  the  scornful 
flash  of  her  eyes  he  read  the  truth  her  lips  had  put  in 
words. 


224  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  There,  you  old  chucklehead,"  the  picture-taker 
broke  in  to  s;iy.  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  ?  Didn't  I  tell 
you  this  nigger  gal  was  runnin'  away  from  that  nig 
ger  man  ?  Didn't  I  ?  Yes,  I  did,  yes  I  did  ;  but 
you're  gittin'  so  deaf  you  can't  hear  the  grass  grow." 

Lyme  was  leaning  out  of  the  window  talking  to 
his  horse,  and  the  animal's  ears  were  moving  back 
ward  and  forward  as  if  straining  to  hear  the  rebuke. 
Drawing  in  his  head  Lyme  said  to  Cherry  : 

"  So  you're  givin'  him  the  go-by,  eh  ?  I  thought 
I  saw  the  way  the  wind  was  blowin'.  I  usually 
know  which  turn  to  take  when  I  come  to  the  forks  in 
a  road.  Now  you  jest  squat  down  an'  make  your 
self  comfortable,  an'  if  an  old  calaboose  like  this 
wagon  an'  a  hoss  that  knows  more'n  most  men  kin 
help  you  out  of  a  scrape,  you  jest  count  on  us.  If 
you  are  a  nigger,  you're  a  woman,  an'  that's  what's 
the  matter." 

Lyme  stepped  through  the  wagon  to  the  door 
and  unlatched  it.  A  green  lane  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
long  stretched  behind  them.  The  picture-taker's 
eyes  scanned  it  up  and  down.  A  meadow  lark  beat 
its  stout  wings  against  the  sunlight  where  a  wood 
pile  marked  the  advance  of  civilization  in  the  tim- 
berland.  This  bird  was  the  only  living  thing  in  sight 
along  the  wagon's  track. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  225 

"  Gid  ap,"  Lyme  shouted  to  Old  Ironsides,  hav 
ing  closed  the  door  and  poked  his  head  through  the 
front  window  again.  Jogging  along  he  lighted  his 
pipe  and  smoked  himself  into  a  day-dream  of  a 
wedding. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

IT  would  have  taken  a  good  horse  to  have  kept 
step  with  Old  Ironsides  that  day.  Lyme  was  in  a 
silent  mood.  More  than  once  during  the  day, 
when  the  solace  of  tobacco  seemed  to  fail  him,  he 
put  his  meditations  between  his  cheeks  and 
whistled  the  familiar  tune.  To  the  negro  girl  his 
communications  were  limited  almost  entirely  to 
words  of  caution  whenever  the  picture-wagon 
approached  a  settlement  or  a  village,  so  that  she 
was  left  wholly  in  the  dark  as  to  his  plans  for 
disposing  of  her,  a  matter  in  which,  however,  she 
showed  no  great  concern.  He  did  talk  to  his 
horse  and  that  glibly. 

"You're  some  better'n  a  yaller  dog,  you  are," 
he  said,  "  an'  if  you  ain't  the  best  hoss  that  ever 
looked  through  a  collar,  well,  your  board  is  paid 
for  this  summer  anyway.  Doggone  it,  I  didn't 
know  it  was  in  you — no  I  didn't.  We're  goin'  to 
make  it,  sure,  an'  without  bustin'  a  belly-band 
nuther." 

At  one  or  two   places    on    the    way    Lyme    was 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  227 

solicited  to  make  a  halt,  with  the  promise  of 
something  in  his  line  ;  but  his  reply  was  that  he 
was  in  a  hurry,  and  if  there  were  anxious  thousands 
who  fain  would  secure  the  shadow  ere  the  substance 
faded  they  must  wait  until  he  returned,  as  he 
announced  was  his  design,  within  a  few  days. 

"Ain't  got  no  time  to  tarry,"  was  his  response 
to  these  overtures,  and  he  said  the  same  thing  over 
and  over  again  to  the  horse.  At  midday  they  all 
refreshed  themselves  at  a  safe  distance  from 
curious  eyes.  An  hour  taken  in  this  way  to  give 
Old  Ironsides  a  measure  of  oats  was  the  only  time 
lost  in  the  day's  travel.  This  was  at  the  top  of  a 
wooded  knoll,  at  either  end  of  a  level  stretch  three 
or  four  rods  long,  from  which  the  road  in  both 
directions  could  be  easily  commanded.  Lyme 
walked  its  length  three  or  four  times  to  keep  guard 
while  Cherry  had  an  opportunity  to  stretch  her 
joints,  which  she  said  ached  sorely,  by  reason  of 
her  necessarily  cramped  position  in  the  van. 

He  did  not  have  to  warn  her  to  be  wary  of  her 
movements.  At  the  end  of  the  first  trip  to  the 
brow  of  the  knoll  he  sa\v  her  reentering  the  wagon, 
and,  going  in  after  her,  found  the  girl  examining  his 
apparatus  where  he  had  fastened  it  in  a  sling 
attached  to  the  glass-covered  roof. 


223  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  Queer  fixin's,  eh  ?"  he  said,  with  more  suavity 
than  he  had  been  showing. 

"Yaas  dey  am,  massa,"  said  Cherry,  quite  elated 
that  the  long  silence  had  been  broken.  "  Dis  am 
whar  you  p'int  dem  pictures,  I  reckon." 

"  Don't  paint  'em,"  Lyme  replied.  "  I'm  too 
durn  lazy  to  paint  so  I  jest  hires  the  sun  up  yender 
to  do  it  fur  me.  He's  a  handy  boy  with  the  brush 
an'  paint  pot  I  kin  tell  you.  Ever  set  for  your 
picture?" 

"  No-o-o  ! "  This  from  the  slave  girl  in  a  tone 
that  comprehended  as  a  volume  might  not  have 
done  the  lowly  estate  in  which  her  life  had  been 
cast.  It  was  one  syllable  of  eloquent  astonishment. 
The  picture-taker's  question  had  implied  a  possi 
bility — to  one  so  benighted  a  glorious  possibility. 

All  eyes,  Cherry  stood  there,  asking  out  of  them 
if  such  might  be  her  rare  good  fortune.  A  lighted 
match  blazed  above  the  bowl  of  his  pipe  as  Lyme 
wagged  his  head.  He  could  not  help  seeing  that 
here  was  a  subject  for  his  camera  worth  the  while. 
Cherry  Lemoire's  beauty  had  not  been  over-praised. 
She  was  speechless  with  joy,  but  all  the  red  blood 
in  her  veins,  that  made  her  sun-touched  skin  glow 
as  with  fire,  was  an  active  substitute. 

"  Maybe  we'll  try  it  on,  down  there,  if  the  sun 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  229 

ain't  doin'  nuthin  particular,"  Lyme  said,  his  eyes 
twinkling,  "  an'  we  have  time  to  spare." 

For  the  rest  of  the  way  Lyme  Disbrow  was 
carrying  a  heavy  load  of  woman's  vanity.  Cherry 
watched  the  sun  drop  from  the  zenith  towards 
the  horizon  and  grew  weary  waiting.  Meanwhile 
she  turned  to  such  account  as  she  could  her 
disordered  dress,  left,  as  it  happened,  in  a  state  of 
great  untidiness  by  her  early  morning  flight  through 
the  wet  woods.  Each  mile  as  they  went  on  dragged 
after  its  fellow  on  heavy  feet. 

At  last  the  old  horse  hauled  the  picture-wagon 
out  into  a  sunlit  place  on  the  road,  beside  a  mossy 
embankment,  capped  by  a  cluster  of  white-stemmed 
birches.  It  was  high  ground,  and  from  it,  through 
a  jagged  opening  in  the  distant  tree-tops,  a  church 
steeple  was  seen  piercing  the  blue  sky.  A  patch 
of  dense  woods  lay  between  this  landmark  and 
their  eerie.  Over  a  black  line  of  spruces  seemingly 
at  the  very  base  of  the  steeple,  but  really  a  good 
half-mile  beyond,  the  afternoon  sun  fiercely  glared 
on  a  sheet  of  water,  from  the  calm  bosom  of  which 
the  light  was  thrown  back  into  the  arch  of  heaven 
in  a  million  dancing  waves. 

"  That's  where  we're  makin'  for,"  Lyme  remarked, 
as  he  drew  rein  beside  the  mossy  bank  where  Old 


230  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Ironsides  could  nibble  at  the  tender  shoots. 
"We're  ahead  o'  time,  too,  so  if  you've  got  on  your 
best  bib-an'-tucker,  we'll  take  that  picture  we 
talked  'bout  a  spell  ago." 

Cherry  lost  no  time  in  making  ready.  While 
Lyme  leisurely  transformed  his  wagon  into  a 
gallery,  unloosening  a  brace  here  and  a  strap  there, 
the  slave  girl  prinked  excitedly  before  a  little 
looking-glass  that  he  let  down  on  hinges  from  its 
place  on  the  side  of  the  van. 

"  I'm  goin'  to  hang  'round  here  for  a  matter  of 
half  an  hour  or  thereabouts,"  the  picture-taker 
said,  as  he  went  on  arranging  his  simple  accessories, 
"  so's  to  get  down  there  into  the  holler  'bout  sun 
down.  I'm  goin'  to  drop  you  there,  an'  say  good- 
by,  my  gal,  an'  I  guess  I  can  fix  things  up  so's 
you'll  get  through  all  right,  an'  send  you  on  to- 
morrer.  I'm  not  in  the  Underground  business 
myself,  but  I  travel  some,  an'  I  know  one  or  two 
of  the  blamed  fools  who  is  ;  an'  it's  lucky  for  you 
I  do,  I  kin  tell  you.  Josh  Hunger  down  there  in 
Lakeport  'ould  ruther  run  off  a  nigger  than  raise  a 
hundred  bushels  of  potatoes  to  the  acre.  That's 
Oneida  Lake  you  see  shinin'  down  there  like  a  tin 
pan  that's  jest  been  sanded,  an'  to-morrer,  Josh, 
he'll  whirl  you  over  to  Lake  Ontario  in  a  jerk  of  a 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  231 

lamb's  tail.  Guess  you'll  be  all  hunky  after  that — 
though  I  ain't  'sposed  to  know  nuthin'  'bout  this 
Underground  business." 

"  Dat  Massa  Mungo'll  fin'  clis  chile  ready  fur  to 
go  any  time,"  Cherry  said.  "  I'se  allus  ready, 
Massa  Disbro'.  " 

This  obvious  suggestion  to  the  picture-taker  that, 
so  far  as  she  was  concerned,  he  need  not  delay 
preparations  for  the  promised  sitting,  was  entirely 
lost  on  Lyme.  At  the  same  time  the  girl  was  still 
grimacing  before  the  looking-glass,  shaking  out  the 
folds  in  her  petticoat,  smoothing  the  wrinkles  in  her 
bodice,  dampening  her  finger-tips  to  imprison  the 
vagrant  locks  on  her  temple  and  retying  for  the 
hundredth  time  the  bandana  which  she  wore  as  a 
fillet  around  her  forehead.  There  could  be  no 
question  the  Promised  Land  she  yearned  for  was  a 
long  way  this  side  of  Canada.  It  was  veiled  only 
by  the  mysteries  of  the  picture-taker's  camera. 

The  natural  grace  with  which  Cherry  fell  into  the 
pose  he  wished  piqued  all  of  Lyme's  artistic  resour 
ces.  In  the  pains  he  was  taking,  therefore,  to  do  her 
justice  and  score  a  triumph  for  his  art,  the  girl  gave 
him  a  hearty  second.  She  had  not  laughed  that  day 
till  then,  but  for  very  joy  in  this  new  experience 
she  let  out  her  heart  in  rippling  melody.  When  at 


232  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

last  all  was  ready,  and  the  picture-taker,  stepping 
off,  solemnly  admonished  her,  as  became  the  tradi 
tions  of  his  craft,  to  look  pleasant,  he  committed  a 
fatal  error ;  for  here  was  a  child  of  Nature,  with 
whom  consciousness  wore  the  face  of  sorrow.  It 
was  therefore  a  sad  face  that  Lyme  Disbrow's  cam 
era  caught.  As  the  artist's  watch  ticked  off  the 
slothful  minutes  her  heart  beat  with  it. 

"  You  sit  right  there,"  Lyme  said  when  the  agony 
was  over,  "  till  I  finish  this  here  tintype.  I'm  goin' 
to  give  you  this  one,  an'  make  another  for  yours 
truly.  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  jiffy." 

Then  he  went  behind  the  curtains,  which  when 
let  down  from  the  wagon  roof  made  an  enclosure 
for  the  dark  room,  and  in  the  black  recesses  of  which 
he  practised  the  occult  secrets  of  which  he  was 
popularly  presumed  to  be  the  master.  Cherry  had 
watched  him  from  the  beginning  with  staring  eyes, 
as  he  brought  forth  the  black  slide  from  its  hiding- 
place  behind  the  curtains,  and  having  transfixed  her 
image  on  it  through  the  focused  lens,  noted  his 
disappearance  with  it  as  one  steeped  in  superstition 
might  have  followed  a  feat  in  oriental  jugglery. 
The  fresh  fumes  of  the  chemicals  in  which  he  worked 
only  served  to  deepen  the  mystery  of  this  devil's 
trade  of  his.  The  slave  girl  trembled  while  she 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  233 

waited.  Her  imagination,  already  the  playground 
of  plantation  sorcery,  with  its  troops  of  voodoos  and 
hobgoblins,  caused  her  to  sit  spellbound  in  the 
wagon,  fearing  to  look  to  the  right  or  left. 

A  distant  cry,  as  of  someone  in  distress,  reached 
her  ear.  It  sounded  from  the  depths  of  the  woods, 
on  the  borders  of  which  the  wagon  had  halted. 

"  Massa,  massa,"  she  gasped,  "  the  debbil  am  corn- 
in'.  I  done  hear  him  screech." 

Lyme  came  through  the  curtains  at  this  instant 
with  the  wet  plate  in  his  hand,  and,  not  regarding 
the  girl's  outcry,  showed  her  what  the  magic  of 
photography  had  accomplished.  Delighted  at  the 
result  she  would  have  forgotten  her  fright,  had  not 
the  still  air  been  broken  again  by  the  same  cry. 

"  Dar  he  am  agin,"  Cherry  said  as  she  caught 
the  picture-taker's  wrist.  "  Dat's  the  debbil, 
suah." 

The  girl  was  mortally  afraid. 

"  Sure,"  Lyme  repeated  in  a  sepulchral  voice. 
"  And  he's  got  feathers  on  his  tail,  an'  eyes  as  big 
as  a  barrel-head,  an'  he  looks  mightily  like  an  owl." 
Then  he  tried  to  drown  her  fear  in  a  laugh. 

"Yaas,  massa,  "  Cherry  said,  trying  to  believe 
what  she  had  been  told. 

Now    the  voice    became    articulate,  and,  coming 


234  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

through  the  trees  in  an  agonized  strain,  phrased  the 
wortl : 

"Help!" 

Lyme  listened.  A  squirrel  chattered  in  a  tall 
maple  a  gun-shot  away.  Lyme  was  at  the  door  of 
his  wagon  looking  back  into  the  thicket  whence  the 
sound  had  seemed  to  come.  Once  more  the  same 
word  came  wailing  to  the  ear,  but  this  time  from  a 
gorge  into  which  Lyme  could  look  from  the  open  side 
of  the  road.  Its  rocky  sides,  however,  were  overgrown 
with  scrub  pines  and  brakes  impenetrable  to  sight. 

"  If  that's  the  devil,  gal,"  Lyme  said,  "  he's  a  fast 
goer.  He  yelled  from  over  there  fust  off,  an'  now 
he's  down  there  in  that  hole." 

Cherry  was  shivering  like  a  leaf  in  the  wind,  when 
Lyme,  handing  her  the  piece  of  thin  metal  on  which 
her  portrait  was  imprinted,  and  telling  her  to  dry  it 
in  the  wind,  stepped  out  into  the  road.  The  girl 
clapped  the  tintype  into  her  bosom  and  crouched 
in  the  corner. 

"  Halloo,  you  !  "  the  picture-taker  shouted  in  a 
voice  that  rang  out  strong  and  clear.  There  was  no 
answer  from  the  gorge.  Again  he  called,  this  time 
leaning  as  far  over  the  edge  of  the  precipice  as  he 
dared. 

Within  a  second  or  two  a  human  voice  answered. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  235 

"  Help  !  "  was  the  call,  in  a  pitch  that  was  weak 
and  painful. 

"  You  stay  here  an'  watch  the  hoss,"  Lyme 
shouted  to  Cherry,  as  he  broke  through  the  brush 
and  began  to  clamber  down  the  side  of  the  gorge. 
It  was  a  perilous  descent  he  was  making,  but  by 
taking  a  zigzag  course,  he  was  able  to  pick  out  a 
foothold  here  and  there  on  the  ledges  of  stone  that 
a  thousand  storms  had  washed  free  of  interwoven 
roots  and  mould.  Part  way  down  he  hung  by  a 
tangled  pine,  whose  knotted  trunk  gripped  a 
boulder  like  strands  of  rope,  and  hallooed  at  the 
top  of  his  voice.  Not  a  sound  came  from  the  deep 
gully.  Then  he  circled  a  boulder,  which,  as  he 
looked  up  from  below,  seemed  to  dangle  in  mid-air, 
and  by  a  circuitous  path,  broken  out  by  his  own 
hand,  reached  the  bottom.  The  briers  had  pricked 
his  skin,  and  he  was  bleeding.  A  jagged  rock  had 
ripped  a  pantaloon  leg  to  its  boot  top,  and  his  hair 
was  tossed  like  an  untidy  boy's. 

"  Halloo  !  "  he  cried  again  with  what  breath  was 
left  in  his  body.  Still  no  answer.  lie  was  stand 
ing,  he  found,  on  the  brink  of  a  brook,  which  hid 
den  from  view  from  the  road  went  singing  to  the 
glen  into  which  the  gorge  opened.  Stooping  he 
took  a  drink  of  water  in  his  palm  and  dashed  an- 


236  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

other  on  his  sweating  forehead.  It  was  a  stream  of 
good  width  ;  a  deer  might  leap  it.  On  either  side  of 
it  a  trail  was  plain,  and  Lyme  was  not  slow  to  guess 
that  back  and  forth  upon  this  path  the  farmer  boys 
fished  for  trout,  which  with  half  an  eye  he  saw 
abounded  in  its  shimmering  pools.  There  were 
fresh  tracks  on  the  trail,  too,  heel  prints  that  must 
have  been  set  down  within  an  hour,  for  some  of 
them  were  in  the  soggy  sand,  sharply  moulded. 
Lyme  was  woodsman  enough  to  know  that  given 
an  hour  to  dry  these  edges  would  begin  to  crumble. 
Having  caught  his  breath  again,  he  took  account 
of  his  situation  with  more  deliberation.  He  had 
spent  his  strength  without  stint  on  the  way  down. 
The  channel  of  the  trout  brook  was  a  long  and 
straight  tear  through  the  rocks.  Looking  up  and 
down  he  could  not  find  an  occasion  for  the  cry  of  dis 
tress  that  had  brought  him  there.  The  purl  of  the 
waters  was  all  he  heard.  In  vain  he  tried  to  follow 
the  footmarks.  The  trail  at  many  points  was  too 
hard  and  stony  to  receive  any  impression.  As  he 
pursued  it  down  stream  he  found  it  led  out  into  the 
glen,  and,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  away,  was  accessible 
from  the  road  down  an  easy  incline.  Retracing  his 
steps  he  went  into  the  gorge  up  stream,  only  to 
have  his  climb  unrewarded,  except  that  he  found  a 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  237 

side  path  deep  in  the  shadowed  archway,  that  he 
had  no  doubt  led  up  into  the  road  over  which  he 
had  lately  driven.  This  way  out  had  been  trodden 
by  human  feet  before  he  toiled  up  the  ascent,  but 
to  tell  how  recently  was  impossible,  though  the 
ground  looked  as  if  newly  broken  in  half  a  dozen 
places. 

"  Well,  that  beats  the  Dutch,"  Lyme  remarked  as 
he  came  panting  into  the  road,  being  careful  all  the 
time  to  note  whether  the  twigs  closing  in  the  trail 
had  been  snapped  off.  No  such  signs  of  late  inva 
sion  were  visible. 

He  stood  in  the  road  and  mopped  his  face  of  per 
spiration  which  was  running  from  every  pore. 

"  I  never  hearn  tell,"  the  picture-taker  said  to 
himself,  "that  this  neck  o'  woods  was  ha'nted,  but 
that  noise  was  made  by  a  ghost  or  a  boy — either  of 
2m's  pesky  'nough.  That's  the  hardest  work  I've 
done  since  I  shingled  the  meetin'  house  at  Hope 
Flats.  The  very  next  time  I  hear  a  voice  from 
leaven  bellerin'  for  help,  doggone  me,  if  I  don't 
loller  back  :  '  Tune  up  your  harp  an'  see  if  the  an- 
jels  '11  lend  a  hand  ?  '  Phew  !  " 

Old  Ironsides  browsed  on  the  green  bank  the  dis- 
ance  of  a  five  minutes'  walk.  Lyme  came  to  the 
vagon,  his  coat  on  his  arm,  his  wrist-bands  flaring 


238  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

open  and  his  hat  in  his  hand.  On  his  face  was  the 
flush  of  fatigue  and  overheated  blood. 

At  the  door  of  the  picture-wagon  he  surprised  a 
young  man  in  hunting  costume  who,  with  his  head 
well  inside  the  van,  was  evidently  puzzled  to  know 
what  manner  of  thing  he  had  encountered. 

"Do  you  own  this  shebang?"  Lyme  inquired. 

"  I  ?  No,"  was  the  answer.  "  Somebody's  gone 
off  and  left  it.  I've  been  standing  here  for  half  an 
licur  wondering  if  anything  had  happened  to  the 
owner.  What  had  we  better  do?" 

"  Better  give  it  to  me,  I  guess,"  Lyme  replied. 

The  young  man  saw  that  the  picture-taker  was 
laughing  in  his  sleeve. 

"  Does  it  belong  to  you  ?  " 

"  It  makes  out  to,"  Lyme  retorted.  "  The  gal 
inside  might  have  told  you  that  if  you'd  asked  her, 
an'  there's  no  tellin'  how  many  chipmunks  you 
might've  peppered  while  you  waited." 

Lyme  was  recalling  that  his  passenger  was  too 
pretty  to  escape  notice,  and  he  had  his  suspicions 
regarding  the  motives  which  had  checked  the  prog 
ress  of  the  hunter.  He  meant  his  last  remark  to  be 
stingingly  sarcastic. 

"  Excuse  me,"  was  his  victim's  rejoinder,  "but  I 
didn't  see  anyone  to  ask." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  239 

"Well,  maybe  there  wasn't,  after  all,"  Lyme 
quickly  put  in.  His  eye  had  followed  the  stran 
ger's  into  the  wagon.  Cherry  was  not  in  sight,  and 
what  was  hidden  under  the  black  curtains  belonged 

t> 

to  his  art.  He  was  sorry  his  tongue  had  run  away 
with  him,  and  he  was  in  haste  to  made  amends  for 
his  fault. 

"  I  guess  I'm  a  leetle  kaflummoxed  to-day,"  he 
went  on  to  say.  "  Fust  off  I  thought  I  heard  some 
one  shoutin'  for  help  clown  there  in  the  hole,  an' 
that's  how  I  come  to  leave  the  rig.  Down  I  went 
to  see,  an'  there  wa'n't  a  thing  alive  to  lay  my  eyes 
on.  Then  I  tell  you  to  ask  that  camera  there  to 
say  who  owned  it,  an'  hand  out  a  business  card. 
You've  got  one  on  me,  stranger.  This  is  what 
comes  of  slidin'  down  greased  poles." 

"  Greased  poles  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I  said — greased  poles.  Jest  you 
try  a  short  cut  to  the  bottom  of  that  hole,  an'  get 
in  trainin'  for  the  next  Fourth  of  July." 

"  No,  thank  you,"  said  the  hunter,  "  I'm  willing  to 
take  your  word  for  it.  I  guess  I'll  mog  along. 
Perhaps  I  can  knock  over  a  squirrel  or  two  before 
dark.  If  you  are  going  to  the  village,  I  may  see  you 
there.  My  name's  Thurston— Morgan  Thurston— 
and  when  I'm  not  hunting  I  practise  law,  and  I'm  a 


240  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

plaguey  sight  better  lawyer  than  I  am  a  hunter — so 
old  Judge  Daniels  says.  I'm  in  his  office,  and  he 
gives  me  a  day  off  once  in  a  while  because  he  likes 
the  taste  of  game.  Good  bye." 

With  these  parting  words  the  young  man  gave  his 
game  bag  a  hitch  to  lift  it  to  his  shoulders  and,  gun 
in  hand,  strode  off.  He  went  on  over  the  road  in 
the  direction  of  Smithboro.  Through  the  gap  where 
the  steeple  showed  the  flaming  sun  hung  low  on  the 
horizon  line.  It  seemed  ready  to  drop  out  of  its 
azure  frame  into  a  seething  sea  of  red  beneath  it. 
The  lake  water  was  the  colour  of  blood. 

"  Much  obleeged  to  you  for  keepin'  an  eye  on  the 
old  cart,"  Lyme  shouted  after  the  young  man  in  a 
jestful  tone. 

"  Not  at  all,"  the  cheery  answer  came  back. 
"  Don't  believe  in  leaving  a  horse  alone." 

"  Nuther  do  I,"  Lyme  said  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  along  the  road.  Then  in  an  undertone  that 
was  a  merry  chuckle,  he  added  :  "  An*  if  you'd  been 
as  cur'ous  as  you're  perlite  you'd  a  seen  that  when 
you  go  huntin'  the  fust  thing  to  do  is  to  find  your 
game." 

He  was  in  the  wagon  now  and  had  parted  the 
curtains.  The  dark  room  was  empty.  Cherry  Le- 
moire  was  £one. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

AT  the  beginning  of  the  same  day  a  discovery  as 
inexplicable  had  been  made  at  the  parson's.  It  was 
a  tearful  day  in  the  little  household.  At  first  Bess 
refused  to  be  persuaded  that  Cherry  had  been 
guilty  of  such  a  cowardly  thing — cowardly  she 
called  the  girl's  flight — and  when  in  the  end  her 
hope  that  the  girl  would  redeem  herself  by  return 
ing  or,  if  not  that,  by  sending  some  word  of  explana 
tion,  had  been  worn  out  by  unrewarded  waiting,  she 
was  woefully  cast  down.  Cherry's  threat  that  she 
might  be  badgered  into  again  placing  herself  in  Dick 
Richards's  hands  preyed  on  Bess's  mind,  and  more 
than  once  she  upbraided  herself  for  having  con 
sented  to  drive  the  poor  creature  to  this  act  of  des 
peration. 

Win,  who  had  been  summoned  into  council  when 
the  girl  was  first  missed,  wanted  to  take  upon  him 
self  the  burden  of  the  blame,  and,  that  every  effort 
might  be  made  to  guard  the  fugitive  from  harm,  he 
volunteered  to  institute  a  systematic  hunt  for  her. 


242  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  Yes,  Win,  we  must  hunt  for  her  and  find  her," 
Bess  was  prompt  to  insist.  "  I  feel  like  a  criminal 
to  have  driven  her  out  of  this  house,  after  pretend 
ing  to  be  her  friend  and  protector.  We  did  drive 
her  out,  now  didn't  we,  Win,  although  it  was  for  the 
best  ?  If  any  harm  should  come  to  her  through  me 
I'd  never  forgive  myself — never.  So  we  must  find 
her.  Where  will  you  look  ?  " 

From  the  first  Win's  proposition  looked  like  a 
chimera,  and,  disturbed  in  mind  as  he  was,  no  one 
knew  this  better  than  its  author.  Where  would  he 
look  ?  Truly,  here  was  a  problem.  The  girl's  flight 
might  have  been  in  any  of  twenty  directions.  Which 
would  he  take?  It  would  be  obviously  impracti 
cable — out  of  the  question,  in  fact — to  sound  a 
general  alarm  as  if  it  were  to  be  a  search  for  a  lost 
child.  She  was  a  fugitive  slave,  for  whom  no  worse 
fate  could  be  imagined  than  that  she  should  fall 
into  the  hands  of  others  than  her  friends.  What 
was  more,  a  price  was  on  Cherry  Lemoire's  head. 
To  allow  the  merest  whisper  to  get  abroad  that  she 
was  in  the  neighbourhood  would  start  a  hue  and  cry 
from  which  escape  would  be  impossible. 

"  Where  will  you  look  ?  " 

Win  was  forced  to  take  time  to  consider  the 
inquiry  ?  As  a  measure  of  precaution  he  finally  said 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  243 

he  would  see  if  by  any  chance  the  girl  had  sought 
refuge  elsewhere  in  the  village.  She  could  not  have 
failed  to  learn  in  what  families  in  Smithboro  the 
grim  law  she  was  running  from  was  held  in  light 
regard. 

"  Oh,  yes,  Win."  Bess  said.  "  Poor  child,  she  may 
have  thought  others  would  not  be  as  heartless  as 
we.  She  had  a  right  to  think  so,  Win, — she  had 
indeed." 

The  doctor  made  the  rounds,  assisted  by  Mr. 
Disbrow,  without  finding  trace  of  the  missing  girl. 

"  I  can  only  think  of  one  reasonable  thing  to  do," 
Win  said  on  his  return  with  the  news  of  his  ill 
success,  -'and  that  is  to  go  to  Lakeport.  I  was  to 
drive  the  girl  there,  you  know,  and  turn  her  over 
to  one  of  our  friends — Josiah  Munger.  She  was  to 
stay  with  him  over  night,  and  he  was  to  deliver  her 
to  Sidney  Parshall  at  Palermo.  Mr.  Parshall  was  to 
meet  Frank  Crow  there,  and  he  was  to  finish  the 
trip  to  Mexico  Point.  Cherry,  of  course,  knew 
nothing  of  this,  but  Richards  did.  He  told  me  so 
himself  last  night  at  your  gate,  Uncle,  just  before  I 
came  in." 

"He!    You?     He  told  you?"  Bess  asked  in  utter 

amazement. 

"  Yes,  Bess  dear,  he  warned  me  that  he  knew  our 


244  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

plans  for  getting  the  girl  away.  He  had  learned 
them  of  our  friends.  They  do  not  know  him  for 
what  he  is  as  we — as  I  do.  He  had  probably  been 
over  the  line  looking  for  assistance  in  his  design  to 
take  her,  and — anyway  he  knew  our  plans  and  the 
names  of  our  friends  who  were  to  help." 

"  Did  he  know  she  was  to  be  taken  away  at  once  ?  " 
Mr.  Disbrow  inquired. 

"  I  doubt  if  he  did,"  was  Win's  answer,  "  and  it  was 
on  that  doubt  that  I  acted.  Mr.  Mungerwas  to  be 
notified  of  my  starting  by  '  Mr.  Wood.'  I  had  ex 
plained  how  difficult  it  was  going  to  be  to  get 
Cherry  to  consent,  and,  as  I  knew  that  we  must 
not  delay  after  she  had  agreed,  I  was  to  send  him 
word  that  way.  After  leaving  here  last  night  I 
dropped  in  three  logs,  all  carrying  the  same  mes 
sage,  telling  him  to  expect  me  this  afternoon. 
He  was  to  be  on  the  lookout  for '  Mr.  Wood  '  every 
day  so  as  not  to  miss  word.  The  water  in  the  creek 
is  unusually  high  now,  so  that  one  of  the  logs  was 
sure  to  get  through.  When  I  went  down  to  the  old 
place  to  set  them  afloat,  I  had  to  take  the  logs 
around  to  the  north  side  of  the  mill — the  water  was 
so  swift  it  would  have  swung  them  into  Davis's 
Cove." 

"  Richards  knew  nothing  of  this,  of  course  ?  "  Mr. 
Disbrow  suggested. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  245 

"  Of  course  not,"  Win  replied,  "  but,  knowing 
that  Munger's  was  to  be  the  first  station,  he  might 
have  gone  there,  and  that's  why  I'm  going  to  Lake- 
port.  He'd  hardly  attempt  to  have  Cherry  walk 
farther  than  Lakeport.  If  she  got  that  far  on  foot, 
Richards  could  easily  convince  Mr.  Hunger  that  he 
was  acting  for  us,  and  have  him  go  on.  The  thing 
is  to  catch  him  before  he  starts  to-morrow,  and  if 
Richards  and  Cherry  are  indeed  together,  and  are 
walking,  I  can  overtake  them." 

"  When  did  you  say  that  Mr.  Munger  expected 
you  ?  " 

Mr.  Disbrow  was  coolly  calculating  all  the 
chances  in  the  exploit.  In  reply  Win  produced 
from  a  fold  in  his  wallet  a  sheet  of  paper  that  he 
spread  out  on  the  table.  It  contained  a  scrawl  in 
lead  pencil  that  looked  like  a  cryptogram.  It  read  : 

SS  ?  i  W  3f  4f  PI  * 

"  This  is  the  message,"  Win  said. 

"  Smithboro  station,  April  22d,  one  woman,  ar 
rive  April  24,  between  four  and  six  o'clock,  P.  M. 
Previous  instructions.  Signature." 

Mr.  Disbrow  read  the  cipher  as  if  it  were  the  page 
of  a  primer. 

"It's  worth  trying,"    the  preacher  said,   having 


246  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

thought  out  the  possibilities  for  a  moment.  "  More 
than  likely  Richards  would  look  for  help  from  our 
friends." 

"  I  shall  start  at  once,"  Win  said. 

He  turned  to  Bess  to  say  good-bye.  Tears  had 
started  anew  in  her  eyes,  and,  as  he  kissed  her,  he 
felt  her  lips  quiver  beneath  his  touch.  Her  hands 
clutched  him  tightly  as  if  she  would  not  have  him  go. 

"  What  is  it,  love  ?  "  he  whispered,  reading  some 
thing  unexpressed  by  words  in  her  uplifted  face. 

"  That  man,"  she  said,  her  voice  wavering  with 
emotion.  "  He  is  desperate.  You  must  take  no 
risk,  Win  darling,  no  risk  for  yourself — even  if  you 
find  Cherry  with  him.  Promise  me  that.  Don't 
try  to  take  her  from  him  by  force.  If  she  isn't 
willing  to  leave,  God  help  her,  let  her  go.  Your 
safety  is  precious  to  me — more  precious  than  any 
thing  in  the  world." 

"There  is  no  occasion  for  fear,"  Win  said. 
"  He's  a  coward  at  heart." 

"You  have  not  promised,  Win,"  Bess  said,  throw 
ing  a  world  of  entreaty  into  her  tone.  "If  you  go 
without  promising  me  I  shall  fear  for  you — I  shall 
not  let  you  go  unless  you  do  promise  me.  He  does 
not  value  his  own  life,  and  would  go  to  any  length. 
Promise !  " 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  247 

Win  released  her  from  his  embrace,  but  holding 
her  tenderly  with  one  hand,  as  if  to  chide  her,  with 
the  other  lifted  her  chin  upward  so  that  their  gaze 
met  eye  to  eye.  Her  lids  drooped  as  she  saw  his 
face  light  up  with  a  smile. 

"  I  know  what  you  are  trying  to  tell  me,"  Win 
said.  "I  know  what  a  little  fraud  you  are.  I  have 
discovered  your  secret.  You  might  have  told  it  to 
me  yourself.  I  wouldn't  have  loved  you  any  less, 
or  any  more,  because — well,  nothing  in  all  this 
world  could  make  me  do  that.  But  I  know  it  was 
Richards  who  dragged  me  out  of  the  crowd  the  day 
of  the  Jerry  Rescue." 

Bess  raised  her  eyes  to  his.  He  knew  she  thought 
the  debt  stood  against  him. 

"  Have  it  your  way,  sweetheart,"  Win  went  on. 
"  I  owe  him  my  life,  and  shall  not  forget  the  obli 
gation  ;  but,  had  he  not  flaunted  me  with  it,  I  would 
fear  him  more  were  we  to  meet  as  man  to  man. 
He  lacks  the  moral  sense.  I  think  of  him  as  I  do 
of  a  bull  dog.  I  shall  treat  him  as  one.  There 
will  be  no  encounter,  no  dispute,  no  fight.  I 
promise.  Now,  you  little  deceiver,  if  you  have 
any  more  secrets  on  your  heart,  you  d  better  out 
with  them,  for  I  want  to  be  sure  your  very  soul  is 
mine." 


248  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  My  heart  is  full  of  you,  Win,  and  there's  no 
room  in  it  for  anything  else,"  Bess  said  as  their 
hands  tightened  in  a  parting  clasp,  and  lover's  ca 
resses  were  showered  in  her  hair,  for  her  head  was 
buried  in  his  bosom. 

Win  was  on  his  way  to  Lakeport.  At  the  first 
settlement,  where  he  stopped  to  give  his  horse  a 
draught  of  water,  he  learned  that  the  picture-wagon 
had  been  seen  hurrying  over  the  road  earlier  in  the 
day.  Win  knew  his  father  was  bound  that  way, 
but  was  left  to  wonder  what  summons  he  was 
answering  that  had  required  great  haste.  Lyme 
Disbrow's  journeys  were  usually  of  the  leisurely 
order.  At  the  next  stop  Win  was  informed  that 
the  picture-wagon  had  passed  some  three  hours 
before.  He  made  up  his  mind,  therefore,  that  his 
father  was  likely  to  spend  the  night  at  Lakeport, 
and  that  conclusion  proved  a  matter  of  infinite  sat 
isfaction.  They  could  confer  together  upon  the 
subject  of  his  errand. 

Night  was  settling  over  Lakeport  when  the  young 
doctor's  horse  came  at  a  smart  jog  to  the  crown  of 
the  hill  that  overlooked  the  village.  It  was  yet 
light  enough  to  show  the  lake  beyond  fading  into 
the  descending  shadows  like  a  misty  stretch  of  wan 
colour,  and  dark  enough  to  reveal  the  spot  where  like 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  249 

a  dimple  the  reflection  of  the  North  Star  lay  upon 
the  waters  as  if  they  were  smiling  in  their  sleep. 

Morgan  Thurston  hailed  Win  as  he  approached 
and  bluntly  asked  for  a  ride.  When  the  horse  was 
checked — he  was  spinning  along  under  the  lash— 
the  hunter  was  at  the  rear  of  the  buggy.  Win 
leaned  out  and  beckoned  him  to  get  in. 

o 

"  I'm  in  a  little  bit  of  a  hurry,"  Win  remarked,  as 
Thurston,  evidently  out  of  breath,  came  alongside 
and  waited  as  if  he  was  not  quite  certain  what  to  do. 

"  So  am  I,"  the  hunter  replied,  putting  one  hand 
to  his  left  side  to  still  the  beating  of  his  heart. 
Win  saw  that  he  looked  like  a  man  distrait.  "  But 
I've  got  to  have  a  minute  to  think,"  Thurston  con 
tinued.  "  I've  been  hunting,  and  about  a  mile  back 
there  in  the  woods  I  found  the  body  of  a  dead 
woman.  I  think  she's  been  murdered  !  I  was  run 
ning  to  the  village  to  give  the  alarm  when  you  came 
along.  Perhaps  one  of  us  had  better  go  back  and 
watch  the  body  while  the  other  goes  on.  What  do 
you  think?  " 

Win  had  dropped  the  reins  upon  the  dashboard 
and  leaped  from  the  buggy  at  the  first  words  of  this 
revelation. 

"  A  woman  !  What  kind  of  a  woman  ? "  he 
cried.  "  Where  was  it  you  say  ?  " 


250  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  Back  there  not  over  a  mile,"  answered  Thurston, 
"  But  it  may  be  farther,  as  in  my  excitement  I  lost 
my  bearings  and  had  to  hunt  for  the  road.  Come 
to  think,  I  guess  we  had  better  drive  on,  as  I  doubt 
if  I  could  find  the  place  now.  It's  getting  pretty 
dark." 

It  was  indeed ;  while  the  sky  was  still  luminous, 
as  one  peered  into  the  woodland  blackness  alone 
could  be  seen.  A  glance  satisfied  both  men  of  the 
futility  of  a  search  at  that  hour. 

"  Jump  in,  quick,"  Win  cried,  as  he  led  the  way. 
The  other  was  no  less  alert,  and  before  either  of 
them  was  fairly  seated,  the  horse  was  going  at  break 
neck  speed  through  the  gathering  gloom  into  Lake- 
port. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  lights  in  the  windows  of  Lakeport  twinkled 
far  into  the  night.  The  sedate  village  was  keeping 
late  hours.  Its  normal  quietness  had  been  rudely 
disturbed  by  the  news  which  Morgan  Thurston  had 
brought  in,  and  thus  cheated  of  its  rest,  it  was  turn 
ing  midnight  into  noonday. 

At  the  village  inn  the  neighbours  were  gossiping  in 
excited  groups.  It  was  there  that  Win  had  dropped 
Thurston,  and  then  turned  his  horse's  head  towards 
the  willow  banks  across  the  creek,  where  Josiah 
Hunger  lived.  Before  he  was  out  of  hearing  Thurs- 
ton's  news  had  been  told  to  the  loiterers  of  the  inn. 
One  of  them  volunteered  to  hunt  up  the  Justice  of 
the  Peace  and  broke  through  the  door  on  a  run. 

"  Sid  Fairman's  the  man  we  want,"  shouted 
another  villager,  and  he  too  showed  his  heels  as  he 
rushed  into  the  dark.  Sid  Fairman  was  the  Deputy 
Sheriff  who  stood  for  the  majesty  of  the  law  in  Lake- 
port. 

A  game  of  pinochle  at  the  harness-maker's  and  an 
experience  meeting  at  the  Methodist  church  went 


252  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

by  the  board  as  a  result  of  these  hasty  summonses. 
Before  the  Justice  and  the  Deputy  came  running  to 
the  inn  from  different  directions  the  dread  tidings 
that  a  murder  had  been  done  at  the  door  of  this  or 
derly  community  was  being  carried  from  house  to 
house.  The  women  came  out  with  the  men  to 
learn  the  particulars. 

Once  the  Justice  and  the  Deputy  put  their  heads 
together  sharp  work  was  made  of  getting  the  law  in 
motion.  A  posse  of  citizens  was  organized  to  un 
dertake  a  search  of  the  woods  and,  guided  by  Mor 
gan  Thurston,  they  set  out  in  such  conveyances  as 
could  be  immediately  brought  into  service.  Sid 
Fairman,  the  Deputy,  was  in  the  van  of  this  formi 
dable  cavalcade.  He  was  armed  to  the  teeth  with  a 
huge  horse  pistol  which  he  held  aloft  with  no  little 
show  of  pride.  In  the  wake  of  lantern  light  which 
this  procession  left  behind  there  trailed  an  unofficial 
body  of  men  and  boys,  some  on  foot  and  some  in 
wagons,  all  hurrying  up  the  hill  out  of  the  village 
streets.  In  most  of  the  doorways  a  black  figure  was 
silhouetted.  Through  the  lighted  panes  intent  faces 
peered.  It  was  a  spectral  scene  on  which  the  stars 
looked  down. 

Win  Disbrow,  his  heart  thumping  against  his  ribs 
like  a  trip-hammer,  was  finding  his  way  to  Jo.siah 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  253 

Hunger's  on  the  willow  banks.  Little  had  been 
said  as  Win  and  Thurston  came  at  the  horse's  best 
gait  to  the  inn.  There  had  been  little  time  to  say 
it  in.  Thurston  knew  that  he  had  found  a  lifeless 
body  and  that  it  was  the  body  of  a  woman,  but 
aside  from  this  he  could  not  speak,  for  his  examina 
tion  had  not  gone  beyond  the  glance  of  a  startled 
man.  If  the  murdered  woman  was  Cherry  Lemoire, 
Win  could  not  draw  the  fact  from  his  companion, 
although  all  his  inquiries  had  tended  adroitly  in 
that  direction. 

Before  the  two  men  parted  at  the  steps  of  the  inn, 
Win  wished  Thurston  had  been  more  taciturn. 

"There's  something  mighty  queer  about  this 
murder — if  it  is  a  murder,"  the  young  lawyer  had 
said.  "  On  my  way  up  the  road  to  where  I  struck 
into  the  woods,  I  ran  into  an  old  codger  with  one  of 
those  picture-taking  wagons,  who'll  have  to  explain 
some  things  before  I  get  through  with  him." 

Win's  heart  stood  still  at  the  words.  "  What 
about  him  ?  "  Win  inquired  with  a  painful  effort. 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  Thurston  continued,  "as  to 
that,  perhaps  I'd  better  keep  my  mouth  shut.  He 
didn't  act  just  right,  that's  all." 

"  Didn't  act  right?  "  said  Win,  echoing  his  com 
panion's  phrase.  "  What  did  he  do  ?  " 


254  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"Nothing  to  speak  of,"  was  the  curt  reply,  "and 
at  the  time  I  didn't  think  anything  of  it ;  but  it 
looks  different  now." 

Win  was  in  a  fever.  His  temples  throbbed  and 
his  power  of  speech  failed.  His  impulse  was  to  grip 
the  young  fellow  by  the  throat  and  choke  his  lying 
tongue  to  a  pulp. 

"What  is  it  the  man  did?"  This  Win  at  last 
asked  falteringly,  but  calmly.  He  had  mastered 
himself. 

"  I  tell  you  I  am  not  going  to  say  anything  about 
it  until  the  time  comes,"  Thurston  answered.  "  I'm 
enough  of  a  lawyer  to  know  when  to  speak  and 
when  to  keep  still." 

Had  not  Win's  face  been  veiled  in  darkness  he 
might  have  succeeded  better.  There  was  a  look  of 
horror  on  it  that  called  for  a  candid  response. 

After  a  pause  Win  ended  the  talk  with  a  "  I'd  keep 
still  if  I  were  you,"  that  made  his  companion  look 
at  him  in  sudden  surprise. 

What  mystery  was  this  ?  Something  to  be 
explained  by  a  picture-taker  ?  What  things  ?  A 
murder  and  his  father  concerned  in  it !  It  was  of 
his  father — Win  felt  sure  of  that — that  this  man 
spoke.  His  father!  Who  dare  invent  so  foul  an 
aspersion  ?  A  chattering  monkey,  who  had  run  from 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  255 

a  shadow  in  the  woods,  and  imagined  he  had 
stumbled  over  a  corpse  !  In  these  phantom  shapes 
Win  Disbrow's  mind  clothed  his  fleeting  thoughts 
as  he  whipped  his  jaded  horse  into  a  run  towards  his 
destination  at  the  willow  banks.  In  a  last  mad 
dash  of  which  the  poor  beast  was  capable  he  rode 
into  Josiah  Hunger's  door-yard.  It  was  not  far 
from  the  inn  but  it  seemed  as  if  the  horse  would 
drop  in  his  tracks  before  the  journey  ended. 

The  front  door  of  the  house  was  flung  open  before 
he  had  time  to  alight.  In  the  lighted  space  stood 
not  only  the  owner  of  the  house,  but  Lyme  Disbrow 
as  well. 

"  Win  !  "  cried  the  picture-taker  in  a  burst  of 
astonishment. 

"  Father !  "  was  Win's  response  in  a  voice  that 
was  instinct  with  filial  affection. 

Mr.  Hunger,  a  gray-bearded  man,  bent  at  the 
shoulders,  but  a  giant  in  frame,  lifted  a  candlestick 
from  its  socket  in  the  hall,  and  held  it  above  his 
towering  head.  Its  rays  put  the  horse  and  driver 
in  an  inky  profile. 

"  Ain't  the  gal  with  you  ?  "  Lyme  inquired,  as  he 
shaded  his  brows  and  strode  out. 

"  Cherry  Lemoire,  you  mean  ? "  Win  replied, 
jumping  from  his  seat.  "  I  hoped  she  might  be 


256  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

here.  Have  you  seen  her  ?  Do  you  know  where 
she  is?  " 

Lyme  shook  his  head  and  motioned  Win  into  the 
house.  "  What's  our  business  is  our'n,"  he  added, 
while  he  looked  hard  out  into  the  dark  as  if  to  catch 
a  skulking  eavesdropper. 

"Go  ahead,"  Mr.  Hunger  said.  "  I'll  look  after  the 
horse.  Guess  you  came  along  at  a  pretty  good  clip." 
He  was  drawing  his  fingers  through  the  sheeted  foam 
on  the  horse's  side. 

At  the  other  side  of  the  door  Win  caught  his 
father  convulsively  by  the  shoulders  and  volleyed 
him  with  questions.  He  was  visibly  agitated. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here,  father?  Have  you 
seen  the  slave  girl  ?  Do  you  know  anything  about 
her  ?  Have  you  heard  about  the " 

His  lips  could  not  form  the  word  "  murder."  He 
spoke  in  a  whisper  that  sounded  hollow  and 
uncanny. 

"  Hold  your  hosses,  Win,  my  boy,"  the  picture- 
taker  said.  "  What's  got  into  you,  boy?" 

"  My  God,  father  !  "  Win,  exclaimed.  '•  Let  me 
think."  He  threw  himself  into  a  chair  and  beat  his 
hand  against  his  forehead.  Then  he  looked  at  his 
father  in  a  fixed  stare  that  sent  a  shudder  of  appre 
hension  through  Lyme's  body. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  257 

"  Doggone  it,  Win,  don't  take  on  so  bad,"  Lymc 
said,  laying  his  hand  on  Win's  hair.  "  All  the  nig 
gers  on  top  o'  the  green  earth  ain't  wuth  it.  She'll 
turn  up.  I  ain't  scared  a  mite.  I  thought  she 
would  come  here  to  Hunger's  house  sure  when  she 
gave  me  the  slip  in  the  woods." 

"  You  ?  Was  she  with  you  ?  Did  you  take  her 
away  ?  " 

There  was  an  agony  of  despair  in  Win's  words. 
He  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  was  steadying  himself 
by  clinging  to  a  chair. 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  'cause  you've  kind  o'  discom- 
bobolated  me,"  Lyme  replied  while  Win  wildly 
stared.  "  Yes,  I  picked  her  up  this  side  o'  Smith- 
boro,  this  mornin'.  She  was  with  that  imp  o' 
darkness,  Dick  Richards.  Like  a  fool  I  took  her 
into  the  wagon,  and  got  as  fur  as  the  last  patch  o' 
woods  t'other  side  o'  the  village,  when  she  ske 
daddles — lights  right  out,  takes  leg  bail.  I  told 
her  when  we  got  to  Lakeport  I  was  goin'  to  turn 
her  over  to  Hunger,  an'  I  thought  she'd  come  here 
on  her  own  hook.  That's  what  brought  me  here.  I 
ain't  jest  comfortable  here.  You  know  Win,  you 
Underground  fellers  ain't  my  kind.  But  Hunger's 
better  'n  the  gineral  run  an'  when  he  asked  me  to 
wait  an'  see  if  the  gal  come  'long,  I  thought  I'd  do 


258  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

it.  When  we  heard  you  come  into  the  yard,  we 
thought  sure  it  was  her.  She  told  me  she'd  run 
away  from  Ab's  'cause  she  hearn  tell  her  owner'd 
got  wind  of  where  she  was  hidin'." 

"  She  did  run  away,"  Win  said  in  atone  of  utter 
dejection.  "  I  started  after  her." 

"  Likely  'nough  I  poked  my  nose  in  business 
that  wa'n't  no  consarn  of  mine,"  Lyme  said,  seem 
ing  to  construe  his  son's  manner  as  a  rebuke. 
"  Likely's  not.  I  allus  burn  my  fingers  when  I 
touch  niggers.  But  I  gave  the  gal  a  lift  to  git  her 
out  of  Richards's  claws — an'  to  get  her  'way  from 
Smithboro.  She'll  turn  up  yit.  Don't  you  go  to 
carryin'  on  so  'bout  it.  It's  only  one  nigger  more 
or  less." 

"  I'm  not  thinking  of  the  girl,"  Win  said.  His 
face  was  drawn  and  his  tongue  thick.  "  Father," 
he  continued,  "  did  you  meet  anyone  on  the  road, 
anyone  near  here — a  man  with  a  gun  who  was  hunt 
ing?" 

"  Yes  I  did.  A  chap  all  slicked  up  nice  and  tidy- 
like,  with  a  lot  o'  fancy  fixin's,  who  said  he  was  out 
gunnin'.  Not  much  of  a  shooter,  I  guess.  Mighty 
perlite,  though.  He  was  snoopin'  round  the  wagon 
when  I  come  up  from  the  bottomless  pit,  where  I'd 
beenhuntin'  for  angel  voices.  Nuther  of  us  brought 
down  any  game." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  259 

What  it  was  that  had  aroused  Morgan  Thurston's 
suspicions,  Win  was  keen  to  learn,  and  finding  noth 
ing  in  the  comments  just  made  especially  enlighten- 
ing,  he  insisted  on  having  his  father  carefully  narrate 
what  had  happened  in  the  glen  and  on  the  road. 
This  Lyme  proceeded  to  do,  innocent  entirely  of  the 
significance  which  had  been  attached  to  the  episode. 

"  That  man,"  said  Win  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
recital,  "  says  he  found  a  woman's  body  in  the 
woods — and,  father,  he  says  she  was  murdered.  I 
brought  him  to  the  village  in  my  buggy." 

The  words  were  hardly  out  of  his  mouth  when 
the  door  opened  to  admit  Mr.  Munger.  "  Excuse 
me  for  interrupting,"  he  said,  "  but  I  want  to  tell  you 
something.  A  neighbour  of  mine,  Charles  Willard, 
just  drove  up.  He  says  a  woman's  been  murdered 
over  in  the  big  woods.  Everybody's  out  looking 
for  the  body.  I  guess  I'll  walk  over  and  see  if 
there's  any  truth  in  the  story.  If  it's  so  you  don't 
think  it  could  be  the  girl — the  girl  we're  waiting  for, 
do  you  ?  " 

The  dead  silence  that  followed  the  propounding 
of  this  question  was  too  ominous  to  require  inter 
pretation.  The  grim  possibility  was  sinking  into 
the  minds  of  the  three  men.  No  one  ventured  to 
soeak  for  the  space  of  several  seconds. 


260  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  Well,"  Mr.  Hunger  said,  breaking  the  spell, 
"  You  just  make  yourselves  to  home  and  I'll  see 
if  there's  anything  in  the  story." 

When  their  host  had  gone,  father  and  son  looked 
into  each  others'  faces,  as  lost  in  contemplation 
they  vainly  sought  words  in  which  to  continue 
their  conversation.  At  last  Lyme,  putting  his 
elbow  on  his  knees,  rivetted  his  son  in  his  eye,  the 
while  a  glint  of  humour  played  about  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  It  was  as  if  he  had  had  a  sudden 
inspiration  to  talk. 

"  Win,"  he  said,  "did  that  hunter  chap  o'  yourn 
say  anything  that  made  you  think  he'd  got  his 
suspicions  'bout  me  ?  " 

Then  Win  told  his  father  what  he  had  hitherto 
concealed.  Lyme  did  not  have  to  be  assured,  nor 
did  his  son  take  the  trouble  to  say,  that  such  a 
suspicion  as  applied  to  him  was  monstrous.  At  the 
same  time  they  both  agreed  that  it  was  a  slender 
thread  on  which  a  terrible  accusation  might  be 
hung.  Should  it  prove  true  that  a  woman  had  been 
slain,  and  if  that  woman  was  Cherry  Lemoire,  the 
slave,  revelations  must  follow  that  would  involve 
those  dearest  to  them,  as  it  must  lead  to  the 
unfolding  of  secrets  the  preservation  of  which  was 
as  precious  as  life  or  honour.  That  a  charge  so 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  261 

horrible  as  murder  should  lie,  even  as  lightly  as  a 
breath,  against  his  father,  bowed  the  son's  head 
in  shame.  Lyme,  philospher  though  he  was,  felt 
the  chill  of  the  cloud  that  was  dropping  down  upon 
him. 

"  Fust  off,"  he  finally  remarked  as  nonchalantly 
as  possible,  "  we'll  wait  an'  see  if  anybody's  been 
killed ;  an'  then  we'll  see  who  'tis.  If  it's  the 
nigger  gal — well  I'll  have  to  face  the  music,  I 
s'pose.  I've  got  one  consolation — they  can't  do  no 
more  'n  hang  me.  Can  they,  boy  ?  " 

Mr.  Hunger  returned  while  he  was  speaking. 
It  was  with  word  that  the  search  in  the  woods  was 
over,  for  the  lights  could  be  seen  through  the  gap 
stringing  along  the  road.  As  yet  the  evil  news  had 
not  been  verified. 

Win  accompanied  Mr.  Munger  back  to  the  inn 
where  half  a  hundred  villagers  of  both  sexes  were 
keeping  vigil.  Lyme  would  have  gone  too,  but  he 
was  persuaded  to  remain  where  he  was  by  the 
earnest  entreaties  of  his  son,  Lyme's  protest  that 
this  seemed  like  self-accusation  proving  of  no  avail. 

When  the  two  men  reached  the  inn  they  could 
see  the  searchers  at  the  head  of  the  main  street,  the 
lanterns  showing  like  blotches  of  phosphorus  in 
the  mist  that  had  rolled  over  from  the  lake.  First 


262  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

the  wagons  came  rumbling  along  in  a  file  like  a 
funeral.  Close  behind,  people  could  be  discerned 
through  the  diffused  light  keeping  up  with  the 
horses  by  main  strength.  Far  in  the  rear  others 
lagged,  the  lanterns  they  carried  at  their  sides  look 
ing  like  will-o'-the-wisps  as  they  swung  to  and  fro. 
As  the  head  of  this  ghostly  procession  neared  the 
inn  the  waiting  throng  broke  into  pieces,  a  mad 
rush  being  made  for  the  foremost  vehicle.  In  it 
sat  Sid  Fairman,  the  Deputy  Sheriff,  in  a  pose  that 
plainly  indicated  official  guardianship. 

"  What  'd  you  find  ?  "  yelled  a  dozen  voices. 

There  was  a  hush  when  the  officer  of  the  law, 
taking  the  lantern  from  the  dashboard  of  the 
wagon,  held  it  so  that  its  faint  beams  fell  on  the 
upturned  face  of  a  woman,  whose  body,  stretched 
out  in  the  long  wagon-box,  made  a  ghastly  sight. 

Win  was  at  the  wagon's  side  as  quickly  as  he 
could  push  his  way  there.  He  looked  but  once. 
Turning  to  Mr.  Munger,  who  had  edged  his  way 
forward  in  the  crowd,  Win  whispered  : 

"  It's  Cherry  Lemoire." 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

"  GUESS  I  might  as  well  go  over  to  Sid  Fairman 
an'  tell  him  all  I  know  'bout  it,"  was  Lyme's  cas 
ual  observation  when  Win  came  back  with  the 
tidings.  "  I  don't  know  a  better  way  to  git  the 
bulge  on  that  hunter  chap.  He  won't  hold  his 
hush  over  night." 

It  was,  however,  decided  that  they  should  sleep 
upon  the  question  touching  the  best  course  to  pur- 
sue.  Mr.  Hunger  would  harbour  them  ;  indeed,  he 
would  have  it  no  other  way.  As  Lyme  went,  candle 
in  hand,  to  the  room  provided  for  him,  his  only 
words  were  words  of  compassion  for  the  slave  girl, 
and  his  heart  seemed  to  be  in  every  syllable  of 
them. 

"  I'm  thinking  of  my  father,"  Win  said  as  he 
took  leave  of  his  host. 

Win  passed  a  wakeful  night.  A  score  of  times 
his  fitful  rest  was  broken  by  imagined  noises  that 
he  took  to  be  the  dreaded  voice  of  the  law.  Hag 
gard  and  worn  he  joined  the  household  at  the 


264  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

breakfast  table.  Lyme,  on  the  contrary,  came 
downstairs  in  excellent  spirits.  His  pillow,  he 
announced,  had  not  been  haunted  by  anything  in 
the  least  resembling  a  ghost. 

"  The  Disbrow  family  has  a  duty  to  perform,"  he 
said,  having  finished  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  slice  of 
toast,  "  and  here  goes." 

Whereupon  Lyme  took  down  his  hat  from  its 
peg  in  the  hallway  and  placed  his  hand  on  the 
latch  of  the  door.  It  was  easy  to  see  there  was  no 
such  thing  as  stopping  him.  He  had  thought  it 
over  and  his  mind  was  made  up. 

"  Just  as  you  say,  father,"  was  Win's  loyal  re 
sponse  to  this  declaration.  Father  and  son  struck 
hands  in  absolute  silence. 

Side  by  side,  still  silent,  they  made  their  way 
towards  the  inn.  Half-way  there,  where  the  main 
streets  crossed,  they  came  face  to  face  with  Sid 
Fairman  and  Morgan  Thurston. 

"  You're  jest  the  feller  I'm  lookin'  fur,  Lyme," 
the  Deputy  remarked. 

"  Out  huntin'  ?  "  Lyme  said,  as  his  gaze  swept 
by  Thurston  to  the  officer's  good-natured  face. 

The  young  lawyer's  notice  was  centred  on  Win. 
Obviously  the  meeting  under  such  circumstances 
had  been  a  surprise.  When  this  had  passed  he 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  265 

greeted  Win  cordially,  but  received  in  return  the 
coldest  of  nods. 

"  Me  and  my  son  thought  we'd  drop  round  an' 
see  you,  Sid,"  Lyme  went  on  to  say.  "  You  don't 
know  my  son,  Dr.  Winfield  Scott  Disbrow  of 
Smithboro?  " 

The  officer  and  the  physician  shook  hands. 

"Glad  to  meet  you,"  Fairman  said.  "  Knowed 
your  father  sence  the  year  One.  He's  the  kind  o' 
feller  you  kin  bet  money  on.  Thet's  what  I  tell 
Mr.  Thurston — didn't  I  Thurston  ?  "  The  young 
lawyer  gave  prompt  assent  to  this  testimonial. 
"  But  law's  law,  Lyme,  and  here  I  be  to  ask  some 
p'inted  questions.  It's  'bout  that  woman  we  found 
dead  over  in  the  woods  las'  night.  Know  anythin' 
'bout  her  ?  " 

At  this  point  Mr.  Thurston  suggested  that  it 
would  be  more  circumspect  to  prosecute  the  in 
quiry  at  the  Justice's  office,  and  as  that  was  plainly 
the  thing  to  do,  the  party  of  four  promptly  headed 
in  that  direction. 

"  Don't  want  to  put  no  wrist  irons  on  me,  do  you, 
Sid?"  inquired  Lyme,  before  they  had  taken  a 
dozen  steps.  "  I  might  want  to  light  out." 

The  Deputy  laughed.  "  Oh,  but  I've  got  the 
implements,"  he  said,  rattling  something  in  his  coat 


266  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

pocket,  "  but  I'm  goin'  to  keep  'em  for  the  feller 
what's  done  the  deed.  Guess  it's  a  murder,  sure, 
though.  She's  got  three  as  nasty  gashes  in  her  side 
as  ever  you  did  see.  One  of  'em's  long  'nough  to 
kill  a  beef  critter." 

At  the  Justice's  office  it  was  developed  that 
Lyme  Disbrow  had  been  brought  into  the  case  by 
the  bare  statement  of  Morgan  Thurston  that  the 
picture-wagon  had  been  on  the  road  in  the  vicinity 
of  the  crime — if  crime  it  was — late  the  preceding 
afternoon.  His  knowledge  of  this  fact  the  young 
lawyer  had  disclosed  after  a  tintype  of  the  woman 
had  been  discovered  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress. 
One  thing  had  suggested  another.  Of  course, 
Sid  Fairman  was  considerate  enough  to  say  that 
though  tintypes  were  not  to  be  picked  up  on  every 
bush,  because  Lyme  Disbrow  happened  to  be  a 
picture-taker  and  happened  to  be  in  that  neighbour 
hood,  it  was  no  reason  why  if  a  woman  was  found 
dead  with  a  tintype  on  her,  that  Lyme  Disbrow 
took  the  picture.  All  Lyme  had  to  say  was  that 
he  never  saw  the  picture  before  and  everybody  in 
the  county  would  believe  him.  So  said  Sid. 

"  Where's  the  picture?"  asked  Lyme.  "  Show  it 
up  and  then  I'll  know  if  it's  fust-class  work  like  o' 
mine." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  267 

"  Hold  on  a  minute,  Mr.  Disbrow,"  put  in 
Thurston.  "  This  is  a  very  serious  matter.  You 
should  not  be  allowed  to  do  or  to  say  anything  to 
incriminate  yourself.  If  you  acknowledge  the 
tintype  is  yours  it  will  tend  to  show  that  the 
woman  was  in  your  company  yesterday.  That  has 
not  yet  appeared." 

The  crude  proceeding  of  the  Deputy  Sheriff's 
inquiry  had  provoked  a  protest  from  the  apostle  of 
the  law.  As  well  meant  as  was  this  interruption, 
Lyme  did  not  take  it  in  the  best  part.  The  Deputy, 
too,  gasped  in  amazement.  He  had  thought 
Thurston  was  a  State  witness. 

It  was  Lyme  who  spoke.  "  Get  'long,  sonny," 
he  said  dryly.  "  We  ain't  out  huntin'  chipmunks." 

Win,  on  the  other  hand,  was  inclined  to  listen  to 
the  lawyer's  advice.  He  whispered  to  his  father 
that  it  might  be  advisable  to  make  no  admissions. 

Sid  Fairman,  having  recovered  his  composure, 
produced  from  his  pocket  the  tintype.  It  was  well 
nigh  bent  double  by  a  blow  that  had  left  a  sharp 
indentation  on  the  enamelled  surface  that  bore  the 
image  of  Cherry  Lemoire. 

"  The  knife  did  that,"  the  Deputy  said  dramati 
cally.  "  He  druv  it  right  in  whar  the  picture 
wuz — right  over  her  heart,  where  it  wuz  secreted 


268  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

when  I  wuz  lookin'  fur  evidence.  Mighty  good 
piece  of  metal  this  'ere."  And  the  officer  rattled  it 
between  the  fingers  of  his  two  hands,  before  hand 
ing  it  to  Lyme. 

11 1  can't  go  back  on  my  own  art,"  Lyme  said,  as 
he  held  the  picture  to  the  light.  "  That  bears  the 
sign  manual  of  Lyman  Disbrow." 

Instantly  there  was  a  hush  of  voices  in  the  room. 
The  good  people  of  Lakeport,  who  had  tiptoed  into 
the  presence  of  Justice,  turned  their  heads  to  look 
at  one  another.  They  nodded  wisely  as  they 
looked.  A  pitying  sigh  was  breathed  here  and 
there  that  told  of  popular  sympathy  with  the 
picture-taker.  There  was  that  in  their  faces, 
however,  that  could  not  be  misunderstood.  They 
believed  that  Lyme  Disbrow  was  deliberately 
putting  his  neck  in  the  hangman's  noose. 

"  Go  on,  Lyme,  tell  us  all  you  know  'bout  the 
woman,"  said  Sid.  A  frown  of  judicial  austerity 
had  mounted  to  his  shock-head.  He  was  using 
the  lingo  of  the  cross-examination. 

"This  is  entirely  improper,"  Thurston  interrupted 
to  say.  "  I  advise  him  to  say  nothing  more." 

Lyme  turned  on  the  young  lawyer  with  a 
withering  gaze. 

"I  don't  want   none  o' your   lip,"  he    said,   "an' 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  269 

when  I  do  want  what  you  call  your  advice,  I'll  come 
round  an'  buy  an'  pay  fur  it.  Now  all  I've  got  to 
say  'bout  that  tintype  is  I  took  it  yesterday.  The 
woman  rode  in  my  wagon  from  this  side  o'  Smith- 
boro.  She  said  she  was  comin'  this  way,  an'  I 
gave  her  a  lift  'long  the  road,  jest  as  I'd  do  to- 
morrer  if  she  asked  me.  In  the  woods  yender,  I 
heard  someone  callin*  for  help  down  a  side  hill,  an' 
I  left  the  wagon  with  the  woman  in  it,  to  see  what 
the  rumpus  was  'bout.  I  didn't  find  nuthin'  there, 
nor  in  the  wagon  nuther,  when  I  come  back,  for 
she'd  dug  out.  I  don't  think  that's  a  hangin' 
matter,  do  you,  Mr.  Lawyer?" 

The  ejaculations  that  ran  round  the  room  showed 
that  the  picture-taker  was  making  headway  against 
suspicion. 

"  Who  was  the  woman  ? "  asked  the  Deputy 
Sheriff. 

"  That's  where  you've  got  me,"  was  Lyme's 
cheery  reply. 

"  Don't  know  her  name  ?  " 

"  She  didn't  tell  me,  and  I  didn't  ask  her.  I  kin 
be  as  perlite  as  some  other  folks,  now  and  then." 

His  eye  was  in  a  merry  twinkle  as  it  rested  on 
Morgan  Thurston. 

Sid  Fairman's  inquisitorial  powers  were  being 
piqued.  The  villagers  had  begun  to  grin. 


270  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  See  here  now,  Lyme  Disbrow,"  he  said  showing 
some  temper.  "  This  ain't  no  poppy  show.  Ain't 
it  kinder  funny  that  you  rode  from  Smithboro  to 
Lakeport  with  a  woman  an'  didn't  find  out  her 
name, — an'  a  dummed  fine-lookin'  woman  ter  boot  ? 
What  you  know  you've  got  ter  tell." 

Lyme  was  scratching  his  head  as  if  his  ideas  were 
playing  the  truant.  The  onlookers  began  to  wear 
solemn  faces  again.  Had  Lyme  been  run  to  cover 
by  the  clever  Deputy  Sheriff  ? 

"  Say,  Sid,"  the  picture-taker  said  at  last. 
"  Maybe  this  woman  was  like  a  friend  of  your'n  an' 
mine,  Larry  Burke,  over  to  Morristown — the  one 
that  used  to  be  the  court  crier  when  Thad  Wilson 
was  Sheriff.  Guess  you  knowed  Thad,  didn't  you  ?  " 

"  Knowed  him  ?  "  the  Deputy  Sheriff  answered, 
"  you'd  better  b'lieve  I  knowed  him." 

Lyme  had  penetrated  the  thin  veneer  of  Sid  Fair- 
man's  official  importance  with  a  word.  The  pros 
pect  of  a  good  story  at  Lyme  Disbrow's  hands  had 
utterly  disarmed  him.  The  villagers  drew  closer  to 
listen.  Lyme's  fame  had  spread  farther  than  Lake- 
port. 

"  Did  I  ever  tell  you  'bout  his  hoss  trade  ?  " 

"  No,  you  didn't,"  Sid  replied,  his  eyes  sparkling 
with  anticipation. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  271 

"  Well,  Larry  had  a  bay  mare  with  a  star  on  her 
for'ead  that  was  some  pumpkins.  She  was  some 
Arabian,  I  guess, — anyways  she'd  go  like  sixty. 
Thad  wanted  that  hoss,  but  Larry  wouldn't  sell  fur 
no  money.  You  know  Thad?  If  he  wanted  any- 
thin'  he  wanted  it  bad.  Larry  hated  to  come  to 
court  'cause  Thad  pestered  him  so  'bout  that  mare. 
I  don't  want  to  dwell  on  the  painful  details,  so  I'll 
tell  you  what  happened.  Larry  put  a  price  on  the 
bay  mare — a  price  as  big  as  a  barn.  Thad,  he 
thought  it  over,  an'  when  he  found  out  there  wa'n't 
to  be  no  deviation,  he  forked  over  the  spondulicks. 
I'd  hate  to  tell  you  how  much — you  wouldn't  b'lieve 
it.  Happy  ?  He  was  the  happiest  man  in  Morris- 
town,  Thad  was.  That  is,  till  he  found  out  the 
hoss  was  blind  of  an  eye.  Then  he  swore  a  blue 
streak,  an'  got  over  to  where  Larry  hung  out,  jest 
as  quick  's  he  could.  '  Doggone  you, 'he  says,  'you 
sold  me  this  bay  mare.'  Larry  acknowledged  the 
corn.  He  had  to, — he  had  the  money  in  the 
Cazenovia  bank.  '  See  here,'  says  Thad,  '  why 
didn't  you  tell  me  this  hoss  was  blind  of  any  eye  ? ' 
What  did  Larry  say?  What?  Jest  this:  'You 
see/  says  he,  '  when  I  bought  that  hoss  the  man 
who  sold  her  to  me  didn't  tell  me,  an'  I  naturally 
thought  he  didn't  want  it  known.'  Guess  that's 


272  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

why  that  woman  kept  her  name  to  herself.  She 
didn't  want  it  known." 

Sid  laughed  at  the  story  as  heartily  as  any  of  the 
listening  throng.  Not  until  Lyme  reminded  him  of 
it  did  he  resume  the  inquiry.  There  had  been  a 
painful  pause  after  the  laughter  died  down. 

"  Is  there  anything  further  before  the  conven 
tion  ?  "  Lyme  asked. 

The  Deputy  Sheriff  was  still  pondering  upon  the 
point  of  the  anecdote.  Then  for  the  first  time  dur 
ing  the  interesting  proceedings  he  deigned  to  consult 
with  the  Justice  of  the  Peace.  This  formality  being 
concluded,  Sid  announced,  with  as  much  solemnity 
as  he  could  command,  that  until  the  identity  of  the 
murdered  woman  could  be  established  nothing 
further  could  be  done.  In  the  meantime  he  ex 
pected  the  arrival  of  the  Sheriff  from  Morristown, 
and  possibly  the  District  Attorney,  and  that  the 
wheels  of  justice  might  not  be  clogged,  he  informed 
Lyme  that  until  those  dignitaries  took  hold  of  the 
case,  he  would  have  to  ask  the  picture-taker  to  re 
main  in  the  village. 

Lyme  Disbrow  was  under  arrest. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

WIN  went  back  to  Smithboro  a  heavy-hearted 
man.  It  was  his  father's  insistence  that  sent  him 
away,  and  the  argument  that  prevailed  was  that 
Bess  should  hear  the  news  from  his  lips  rather  than 
from  a  stranger's.  He  was  just  in  time,  for  before 
he  reached  Smithboro  it  had  become  known  along 
the  road  that  a  murder  had  been  committed  near 
Lakeport,  and  the  vague  report  of  the  crime  had  set 
the  people  agog.  It  had  been  passed  along  from 
farm  to  farm,  and  it  lost  nothing  by  this  method  of 
its  telling.  The  preacher  had  heard  it  at  the  Post 
Office,  and  had  spoken  of  it  casually  at  home,  with 
out,  it  appears,  having  excited  serious  interest  there, 
inasmuch  as  among  other  embellishments  added  to 
the  gruesome  story  as  it  was  handed  from  narrator 
to  listener,  was  an  identification  of  the  victim  by  a 
name  that  was  not  the  slave  girl's. 

Win  got  to  his  uncle's  house  by  a  road  that  avoid 
ed  the  village  streets,  though  he  might  have  safely 
passed  that  way,  seeing  that  it  was  long  after  dark 
when  he  arrived.  His  brain  was  in  a  whirl.  He 


274  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

was  the  bearer  of  fearsome  tidings,  and  the  nearer 
he  came  to  those  on  whom  his  words  would  fall  with 
the  heaviest  weight  of  woe,  the  more  he  shrank 
from  the  ordeal.  Worse  than  all  he  had  become 
convinced  that  in  having  left  the  officials  at  Lake- 
port  uninformed  of  Cherry's  identity  he  had  acted 
without  taking  due  account  of  the  consequences. 
In  withholding  this  information  he  had  been  guided 
by  a  desire  to  shield  the  slave  girl's  protectors  from 
what  must  prove  a  most  unfortunate  connection. 
How  futile  this  move  must  be,  Win  determined  af 
ter  it  had  been  deliberately  thought  over.  Once  he 
had  actually  pulled  his  horse  to  a  standstill,  resolved 
to  return  and  give  the  girl's  name.  The  fear  lest  the 
stupid  officials  might  look  on  this  course  as  an  ad 
mission  that  there  was  something  to  conceal  alone 
deterred  him.  So  he  went  on.  But  to  the  end  of 
his  journey  he  could  not  persuade  himself  he  had 
not  taken  what  might  prove  a  fatal  step. 

"  Have  you  any  news?  "  Bess  asked  the  question 
in  a  voice  that  rang  with  terror.  She  had  not  mis 
taken  the  hard  lines  that  seemed  to  furrow  the  face 
against  which  she  pressed  her  flushed  cheeks. 

"  Only  bad  news,  Bess  dear,"  Win  said,  his  voice 
choking.  "  Only  bad  news.  There  has  been  a  mur 
der  at  Lakeport." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  275 

"Yes,  Win,  we've  heard  of  that  poor  woman," 
Bess  replied.  "  But  what  about  Cherry  ?" 

The  preacher  and  his  wife  had  come  into  the 
room.  Mr.  Disbrow  told  how  the  story  ran  in 
Smithboro.  Win  without  breaking  silence  had 
seemed  to  ask  it.  He  was  glad  enough  for  a  mo 
ment  in  which  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

"The  woman  was  not  shot,"  Win  said  at  last, 
"  nor  is  her  name  the  one  you  give.  Cherry " 

Bess  had  staggered  into  a  chair,  but  she  looked  up 
as  if  she  would  take  the  words  from  his  quivering 
lips. 

"  Is  murdered  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  She  is  dead,"  Win  said. 

As  if  this  was  not  misery  enough,  he  had  yet  to 
tell  her  all.  He  tried  to  form  the  words  into  a 
sentence  that  would  not  leave  a  blister  on  his 
tongue,  but  broke  down  utterly  and  sobbed  in  tear 
less  agony.  Time  and  time  again  he  struggled  to 
rise  above  his  emotion,  but  his  lips  would  not  do  his 
bidding.  The  fateful  words  stuck  in  his  throat.  It 
seemed  as  if  the  din  of  battle  was  sounding  in  his 
ears.  In  vain  he  tried  to  lift  his  voice  above  the 
roar.  Even  to  whisper  the  words  that  his  father  was 
accused  was  like  making  the  accusation  himself.  He 
would  be  an  unnatural  son  to  do  it !  But  by  and 


276  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

by  the  truth  was  told.  It  was  dragged  out  of  him 
little  by  little,  and  beside  this  grief  the  other  was 
wiped  away,  in  a  plenitude  of  tears. 

God  be  thanked  that  it  was  from  his  lips  that  this 
awful  thing  had  fallen  on  the  hearing  of  those  he 
loved  !  It  was  the  property  of  everybody  the  next 
day.  Across  the  intervening  miles  the  story  flew  that 
the  Lakeport  murder  was  laid  at  the  door  of  Lyman 
Disbrow,  the  picture-taker,  and  pitilessly  vulgar 
curiosity  caught  up  the  meagre  scraps  of  gossip — fact 
and  fable  mingled  in  a  hopeless  state  of  chaos — that 
came  drifting  to  Smithboro.  The  people  pounced 
on  every  detail  of  the  murder  that  reached  their 
straining  ears  and  laid  it  side  by  side  with  what 
they  knew  of  the  accused  to  his  condemnation  or 
exculpation,  according  to  each  one's  point  of  view, 
or  prejudice,  or  love,  or  hate. 

Lyme  Disbrow  was  like  most  other  men  who  live 
their  life  in  the  open  ;  he  had  his  friends  and  his 
foes.  How  strong  they  were  on  one  side  or  the 
other  he  was  to  learn.  His  was  a  time,  too,  when 
the  test  was  supreme.  Oh,  the  cruelty  of  it  ! 
Friends  were  to  prove  cravens  ;  foes  forgiving,  and 
that  was  to  be  a  blessing. 

The  father  had  broken  faith  with  the  son.  From 
him  the  clumsy  myrmidons  of  the  law  at  Lakeport 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  277 

had  learned  who  it  was  whose  death  had  balked 
their  skill.  Cherry  Lemoire,  a  slave  girl,  fleeing 
from  bondage,  he  had  told  them  she  was,  whereat  a 
motive  came  to  light  that  quickly  laid  the  charge  of 
murder  at  his  door.  Had  not  his  hand  been  against 
the  runaway  slaves  always  ?  A  thousand  voices 
could  be  found  to  condemn  him  out  of  his  own 
mouth. 

It  was  a  terrible  time !  Why  should  there  be 
anything  appalling  in  such  an  accusation  ?  The 
accused  man  might  be  a  good  man,  never  so  good, 
but  if  he  did  not  love  the  black  man  as  his  brother  he 
must  needs  hate  him,  and  hatred  has  ever  darkened 
the  pages  of  history  with  foul  deeds.  It  was  a  ter 
rible  time !  A  saintly  man,  a  member  of  God's 
ministry,  had  stood  in  his  pulpit  in  Boston  and  de 
clared  that  before  he  would  jeopardize  the  safety 
of  the  Union  by  resistance  of  the  Slave  Law 
he  would  see  his  own  mother  dragged  back  to 
slavery  !  What  might  not  a  simpler  soul,  if  he  felt 
as  deeply,  do  under  a  provocation  to  him  as  great? 
Would  the  killing  of  a  runaway  slave  be  more  hei 
nous  than  such  profanation  of  the  holy  temple  ?  It 
was  a  terrible  time  ! 

Look  at  the  reverse  side  of  the  picture.  Mar 
garet  Garner,  a  slave  mother,  overtaken  in  her  flight 


278  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

in  Kentucky,  had  put  her  own  child  to  death  rather 
than  let  it  take  in  another  breath  of  air  in  servi 
tude. 

It  was  a  terrible  time  !  On  the  outstretched  palm 
of  Jonathan  Walker,  as  he  stood  pilloried  in  the 
streets  of  Charleston,  was  burned  the  odious  brand 
of  slave-stealer  that  Whittier's  song  glorified  as  a 
prophecy  of  coming  redemption.  Charles  T.  Torrey, 
a  clergyman  who  died  in  a  Southern  dungeon  as 
a  penalty  for  devotion  to  the  work  of  rescue,  was 
denied  the  last  rites  of  his  church,  and  that  in  the 
North,  lest  those  who  knelt  where  he  had  led  in 
prayer  might  sanction  what  he  did.  Was  it  not  a 
terrible  time  ?  What  had  Lyman  Disbrow,  the 
picture-taker,  with  his  quips  and  his  quibbles,  ever 
done  to  escape  the  rigours  of  such  a  time?  There 
would  be  no  virtue,  he  would  find,  in  a  little  cheap 
philosophy ;  no  saving  grace  in  a  sunny  smile ;  no 
weapon  of  defense  in  his  harmless  life  ;  no  hope  in 
anything.  It  was  a  terrible  time ! 

"  I  allus  thought  as  how  he'd  come  to  some  bad 
end,"  remarked  Sime  Benson.  "  Ef  it  hadn't  a  bin 
fur  his  brother,  the  preacher,  I'd  bin  furdrivin'  him 
outer  taown  long  'go.  It's  my  'pinion,  and  I  ain't 
'fraid  to  say  it  nuther,  thet  eny  of  these  'ere  folks 
who  don't  b'lieve  as  we  does,  would  jest  soon  kill  a 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  279 

slave  as  they  would  a  woodchuck.     Thet's  what  I 
say." 

Not  all  the  Abolitionists  were  as  rabid.  Univer 
sal  horror  there  was  beyond  question  ;  demands,  too, 
that  without  regard  to  bleeding  hearts  the  law  must 
sweep  relentlessly  to  its  revenge ;  conviction  even 
that  where  the  guilt  was,  there  the  law  had  laid  its 
heavy  hand,  but  the  yelp  of  one  cur  like  Simeon 
Benson  was  a  thousand  times  less  cruel  than  the 
common  air  of  pity  that  marked  the  prevailing  tem 
per  of  the  village.  To  bear  with  this  taxed  Win's 
patience  as  nothing  else  did  throughout  this  trying 
period.  The  complaisant  way  in  which  people  he 
had  esteemed  as  friends  would  force  their  sympathy 
upon  him,  without  crying  out  against  the  infamy  of 
the  charge,  wrenched  his  very  soul.  When  they 
hoped  that  everything  would  come  out  all  right — 
as  if  in  the  providence  of  Heaven  the  result  could 
be  otherwise — it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  must  go 
mad  with  suppressed  rage.  If,  as  often  happened, 
he  chanced  to  overhear  bitter  words — and  these 
were  not  lacking — the  sting  left  no  such  wounds. 

"  My  God,"  he  said,  when,  as  was  sometimes  the 
case,  he  gave  way  to  his  grief  under  the  soft  pressure 
of  Bess's  sustaining  love,  "  My  God,  what's  the  use? 
My  father,  who  has  never  harmed  a  living  thing! 


28o  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Was  ever  in  all  this  world  a  man  more  kind,  more 
gentle,  more  straightforward  ?  To  what  purpose 
should  a  man  live  a  decent,  upright,  honest  life,  if  it 
will  not  stand  against  a  million  such  suspicions  as 
are  invented  to  ruin  him  now  ?  Was  there  ever  such 
a  travesty  on  justice?  And  our  friends — our  fair- 
weather  friends  who  have  worked  with  us  in  what 
we  have  thought  the  holiest  of  causes  !  Think  of 
them— 

"  Not  all  have  been  so  heartless,  so  wicked,"  Bess 
had  broken  in  to  say.  "  We  have  not  been  disap 
pointed  in  those  whose  steadfastness  has  been  best 
worth  having.  What  is  nobler  than  Mr.  Gerritt's 
conduct  ?  Does  not  that  stand  against  all  the 
rest  ?  " 

"  I  have  not  forgotten  him,"  Win  declared. 
"Such  friendship  is  a  religion  of  itself.  I  think  of 
nothing  else,  Bess  darling,  and  the  more  I  think  of 
it,  the  stranger  seems  the  treachery  of  the  smaller 
men.  Why  couldn't  the  others  prove  as  true  ?  Is 
such  charity  as  his  the  virtue  alone  of  greatness?  " 

Mr,  Gerritt  had  indeed  hastened  to  Smithboro 
from  Washington  to  silence  the  hue  and  cry  that  had 
been  raised  against  the  picture-taker.  He  left  Con 
gress  to  its  own  devices  that  he  might  bear  the 
shield  before  his  stricken  friends,  and  having  weighed 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  281 

the  evidence  that  so  many  others  were  hailing  as 
indubitable,  made  the  most  of  his  time  among  his 
neighbours  to  forestall  an  adverse  judgment  in  the 
public  mind.  This  he  did  with  so  much  of  fervour 
that  it  alienated  not  a  few  of  those  good  people  who 
had  been  counted  as  next  his  great  heart.  He  went 
to  Morristown,  where  Lyme  was  awaiting  trial,  to 
tender  his  kindly  offices  and  to  assure  the  father,  as 
he  had  assured  the  son,  that  he  need  not  fear  lest 
his  inability  to  obtain  the  ablest  counsel  should  im 
peril  his  defense.  It  was  his  retainer  that  brought 
Edgar  Bartlett  upon  the  scene,  and  as  there  was  no 
lawyer  at  the  criminal  bar  who  was  acknowledged  to 
be  his  match  in  skill,  the  word  went  forth  that 
Lyman  Disbrow  was  going  to  have  a  fair  chance  for 
his  life. 

"  Our  cause  is  on  trial,"  the  liberator  insisted 
when  this  mark  of  devotion  was  offered.  "  It  must 
follow  that  some  of  our  operations  must  be  exposed 
to  light,  and  that  while  justice  is  being  done  no 
harm  shall  befall  innocent  persons,  we  shall  have 
the  benefit  of  the  best  talent.  I  cannot  admit  dis 
pute  of  my  right  to  do  this  in  the  circumstances. 
It  is  a  solemn  obligation,  not  a  kindness." 

Lawyer  Bartlett  plunged  into  the  case  with  his 
usual  enthusiasm.  He  was  not  disposed  to  belittle 


282  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

the  ugly  look  the  accusation  wore.  Men  had 
stretched  hemp  on  slimmer  evidence,  so  he  said,  not 
stopping  to  pick  phrases  that  would  sound  less 
brutal.  It  was  a  way  Lawyer  Bartlett  had,  and 
often,  after  having  gone  over  the  outlook  with  him, 
Win  had  felt  that  into  every  wound  vinegar  had 
been  poured.  Lawyer  Bartlett's  reputation  as  a 
forensic  giant  had  preceded  him  from  Syracuse,  so 
that  whenever  he  was  in  Smithboro  or  Morristown 
he  never  lacked  for  listeners.  His  appearance  in 
court  was  anticipated  in  those  parts  as  if  it  was  to 
be  a  show. 

"The  Gordian  knot  in  this  case,"  Lawyer  Bart 
lett  said  to  Win,  '  is  contained  in  that  cipher  mes 
sage  found  in  the  picture-wagon.  I  think  I  know 
juries  well  enough  to  assert  without  fear  of  contra 
diction  that  a  verdict  against  us  could  not  be  secured 
on  the  other  facts  on  which  our  friends  of  the  prose 
cution  are  relying.  Disbrow  will  go  on  the  stand 
and  admit  that  the  slave  girl  rode  with  him.  He 
will  admit  that  he  knew  she  was  running  away.  He 
will  admit  that  he  took  her  picture,  and  that  the 
picture  found  on  her  person  was  the  identical  pic 
ture  he  took.  How  she  disappeared  from  the 
picture-wagon  while  he  was  engaged,  as  he  thought, 
in  an  act  that  I  shall  eloquently  touch  on  as  a  heroic 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  283 

example  of  manly  courage,  we  may  depend  on  him 
to  describe  so  as  to  flood  the  court  room  with  tears. 
I  have  studied  your  father,  and  I  feel  confident  that 
he  will  develop  the  dramatic  possibilities  of  this 
situation." 

"  He  will  tell  the  simple  truth,"  retorted  Win,  not 
by  any  means  certain  that  by  employment  of  the 
atrical  effects  the  case  was  to  be  well  served. 

"  Of  course,  of  course,"  the  lawyer  observed. 
"  But  just  how  much  truth  we  want — that  is,  just 
how  much  it  is  safe  for  the  jury  to  know — is  the 
vital  question.  I  shall  let  the  witness  testify  on  his 
own  behalf,  for  instance,  that  the  blood  stains  they 
found  on  his  shirt  came  from  the  scratches  he  re 
ceived  while  clambering  in  the  briers  on  the  hillside. 
No  doubt  they'll  make  a  lot  of  that  bloody  shirt 
when  they  get  into  court.  I  used  to  be  up  to  tricks 
of  that  sort  when  I  was  public  prosecutor.  I  wish 
they  hadn't  got  hold  of  that  ensanguined  garment. 
Oh,  that  smart  District  Attorney  of  yours  will  dan 
gle  that  shirt  before  the  jury's  eyes !  The  best  that 
I  can  do  is  to  dispute  that  the  stains  are  blood  if  he 
gets  too  frisky.  But  I  rather  think  the  accused  can 
take  the  curse  off  by  telling  a  good  story." 

"  Let's  have  the  truth,  Mr.  Bartlett,"  Win  said  in 
an  icy  tone. 


284  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

"  So  far,  so  good,"  Lawyer  Bartlett  went  on. 
"  But  there's  a  point  we  ought  to  stop  at  even  in 
having  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but 
the  truth.  How  did  that  cipher  message  get  into 
the  wagon  ?  You'll  say  he  doesn't  know,  and 
that  is  the  truth.  I  believe  it  and  so  do  you,  but 
will  the  jury?  There's  the  question.  As  I  re 
marked  before,  that's  the  Gordian  knot.  You  know 
that  cipher  message,just  as  those  snooping  constables 
found  it  on  the  floor  of  the  wagon,  was  written  by 
you.  You  know  it  referred  to  the  escape  of  the 
girl  Cherry.  You  don't  know,  any  more  than  your 
father  does,  how  it  reached  the  wagon,  and  how  it 
reaches  forth  its  grisly  hand  to  grip  him  by  the 
throat,  holding  him  while  the  hangman  adjusts  the 
fatal  noose." 

Win  shuddered. 

"Stop!"  he  cried  in  despair.  "  For  God's  sake, 
stop  ! " 

"  I  shall,"  was  the  imperturbable  reply  of  the 
lawyer.  "  But  just  where  ?  That  cipher  is  all 
Greek  to  the  people  in  this  case.  The  District 
Attorney  doesn't  know  what  it  means.  He  doesn't 
know  where  it  came  from.  It's  a  sealed  book  to 
him.  But  he'll  wave  it  aloft  as  something  mys 
terious,  a  kind  of  second  fiddle  in  the  performance 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  285 

to  the  bloody  shirt.  He'll  riddle  us  with  innuendo. 
He'll  say — here  is  the  heart  of  the  mystery  !  Here 
is  the  damning  proof !  I  would  if  I  stood  in  his 
boots.  He'd  be  a  stotenbottle  if  he  didn't  do  it. 
'  What  is  this  ? '  he'll  yell,  and  an  awful  doubt  will 
cloud  the  jury's  mind.  '  Who  brought  it  to  the 
wagon  ?  '  Then  he'll  say,  '  Who  but  the  prisoner 
at  the  bar  ?  " 

Win  trembled  when  he  saw  the  effect  of  this  sort 
of  sophistry.  The  lawyer  was  making  it  a  startling 
picture  in  his  mind. 

"  Why  not  tell  what  our  suspicions  are  ? — that 
Dick  Richards  left  it  there,  that  he  is  the 
murderer?  " 

"  Suspicions  are  not  evidence,"  Lawyer  Bartlett 
answered  coldly.  "  Richards  hasn't  been  seen  in 
this  part  of  the  country  for  months,  except  by 
members  of  your  family,  and  your  evidence  would 
not  count — it  would  be  thought  prejudiced.  No, 
that  won't  do.  Now  what  I  am  thinking  about  is, 
shall  we  unfold  the  mystery  ?  Shall  we  decipher 
that  message,  and  throw  ourselves  on  the  common 
sense  of  the  jury,  saying  that  if  that  message  were  a 
proof  of  the  prisoner's  guilt,  we  would  leave  its 
contents  unrevealed  until  the  crack  of  doom,  until 
the  last  trump  ?  I  shall  have  to  think  over  this 


286  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

aspect  of  the  case.     It's  the  Gordian    knot,  I  tell 
you." 

Win  went  away  with  his  heart  full  of   trouble , 
the  lawyer  with  his  mind  full  of  doubt. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

IN  connection  with  the  sorrow  that  had  come  to 
the  Disbrow  family  Smithboro  gave  itself  up  to 
deepest  regret  when  it  learned  that  the  wedding 
had  been  indefinitely  postponed.  This  was  common 
ground  on  which  friend  and  foe  could  stand.  The 
moistened  eye  of  sympathy,  the  turned-up  nose  of 
spite,  told  the  simple  tale  of  village  life.  In 
Bess's  heart  no  robin  red-breast  was  singing. 
Its  joyful  note  of  a  few  weeks  ago  had  died  out 
in  a  mournful  echo.  All  the  little  trumperies  of 
that  blissful  time,  not  so  long  ago,  were  laid  away 
with  a  brave  heart.  Bess  was  brave.  Win  had  said 
it  a  thousand  times. 

Now  he  came  to  tell  her  that  she  must  be  braver 
still.  While  the  blackest  of  clouds  hung  over  the 
good  name  he  bore  it  would  be  monstrously  wicked 
in  him  to  hold  her  to  her  promise.  This  was  the 
avowal  he  made  following  his  talk  with  the  lawyer. 
He  had  heard  enough  to  convince  him  no  other 
course  was  open  to  an  honourable  man. 

"  Until    now,"  he  said  as  his  eyes    streamed,    "  I 


288  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

have  thought  only  of  the  disgrace  of  the  accusation. 
Mr.  Bartlett  spares  me  the  bitterness  of  hearing 
that  the  defense  is  not  sure — is  not  absolutely  sure. 
If— 

Win  could  not  bring  himself  to  speak  the  fearful 
words.  It  was  not  required  that  they  should  be 
spoken.  In  vain  Bess  begged  the  privilege  of 
being  at  his  side  through  it  all  ;  he  would  not 
yield.  No,  he  would  bear  the  cross  alone.  Bess's 
courage  was  overtaxed  at  last.  She  flew  to 
Dorothy  that  she  might  hide  her  unutterable  grief 
in  the  bosom  of  a  true  friend. 

At  the  door  of  the  Gerritt  mansion  she  met 
Morgan  Thurston  coming  out.  Dorothy  was  doing 
the  honours  of  her  father's  house  and  had  ushered 
the  lawyer  to  the  threshold. 

"  Oh,  Bess,"  she  exclaimed,  "  how  lucky ! 
Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  what  to  do  if  Mr.  Thurston 
will  kindly  come  back." 

Dorothy,  herself  under  a  strain,  did  not  see  the 
look  of  entreaty  in  Bess's  face.  The  young  lawyer 
had  graciously  responded  to  Dorothy's  wish. 
There  was  nothing  left  for  Bess  to  do  but  follow 
them  in,  which  she  did,  with  the  hope  that  he 
could  be  quickly  dismissed.  Her  anguish  would 
not  wait  long. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  289 

When  she  found  that  this  was  the  Mr.  Thurston 
of  Lakeport,  whose  name  was  widely  known  in 
connection  with  the  charge  against  the  picture- 
taker,  Bess  was  even  less  inclined  to  prolong  the 
interview.  Yet  she  could  discover  nothing  re 
vengeful  in  the  young  man's  bearing,  which,  on  the 
contrary,  was  extremely  gracious  and  cordial.  He 
had  called  on  Mr.  Gerritt,  and  was  sadly  dis 
appointed  to  find  him  in  Washington.  To  Dorothy 
he  had  appealed  in  this  extremity,  feeling  that  it 
was  a  duty  to  make  known  his  errand  before  it 
was  too  late.  In  a  word,  he  had  come  to  ask  Mr. 
Gerritt  to  allow  him  to  be  associated  with  the 
defense  in  the  coming  trial,  on  the  ground  that 
being  thus  related  to  the  case,  his  appearance  as  a 
witness  might  possibly  be  avoided.  The  dubious 
efficacy  of  this  device  was  not  apparent  to  the 
young  women,  nor  did  the  young  lawyer  attempt 
to  guide  them  through  the  legal  labyrinth  into 
which  his  enthusiasm  had  led  him.  As  became  a 
limb  of  the  law  astute  enough  to  devise  such  a 
desperate  remedy  he  went  no  further  than  to  arouse 
their  sympathy. 

"  I  am  a  believer  in  Mr.  Disbrow's  innocence  of 
this  crime,"  he  explained  to  the  young  women. 
"  It  is  this  conviction  that  moves  me.  Unfortunately 


29o  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

I  have  been  brought  into  the  case  in  a  way  that 
I  fear  may  damage  the  defense.  My  story  if  told 
in  court  could  be  distorted  by  a  sharp  lawyer  to 
Mr.  Disbrow's  great  injury.  I  see  what  could  be 
done  with  it.  At  one  time  I  misconstrued  his 
conduct  as  suspicious.  I  believe  a  jury  would  do  the 
same.  I  do  not  want  to  throw  even  the  weight  of 
a  straw  against  him.  I  have  told  Miss  Gerritt 
that  I  thought  her  father  would  see  what  my  motive 
is,  and  acquit  me  of  resorting  to  an  underhanded 
method  of  thrusting  myself  forward.  You  see  I 
take  that  risk  in  thus  offering  my  services.  You 
may  not  know  it,  but  my  course  is  most  unusual ;  but 
I  am  urged  to  take  it  because  a  life  is  at  stake." 

Bess  and  Dorothy  were  listening  with  grave  at 
tention.  It  was  Bess  who  suggested  timidly — for 
the  matter  sorely  perplexed  her — that  as  Mr.  Bart- 
lett  was  in  Smithboro,  Mr.  Thurston  had  better  lay 
the  matter  before  him. 

"  I  hesitate  to  do  that,"  replied  Mr.  Thurston, 
"  because  it  would  seem  to  be  a  breach  of  pro 
fessional  etiquette.  I  had  hoped  that  Mr.  Gerritt, 
to  whom  Mr.  Bartlett  owes  this  case,  might  take 
the  initiative.  I  likewise  fear  to  broach  the  subject 
to  either  the  prisoner  or  Mr.  Disbrow.  They  might 
distrust  my  motives." 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  291 

"  I  wanted  Mr.  Thurston  to  go  to  Win,"  Dorothy 
said.  "  That  was  why  I  was  so  glad  you  came 
when  you  did.  I  think  Win  ought  to  talk  with 
Mr.  Thurston.  Don't  you,  dear?" 

Bess  answered  in  the  affirmative.  Her  voice 
wavered,  but  its  tone  was  sincere.  Morgan  Thurs- 
ton's  frankness  had  won  her.  He  seemed  to  be 
the  soul  of  honour,  and  Dorothy  was  plainly  on  his 
side.  Being  the  daughter  of  her  father,  she  always 
believed  in  the  better  nature  of  the  species.  Bess 
being  a  woman  of  more  contemplative  habits, 
reached  the  same  conclusion  by  a  different  process. 
Assuredly  they  had  found  a  fast  friend.  Broken  in 
spirit  as  Bess  was,  deep  as  she  was  in  the  depths  of 
despair,  she  hailed  him  as  a  proof  that  the  world 
was  not  so  pitilessly  cruel  after  all.  Win  was  put 
ting  too  low  an  estimate  on  the  inherent  good  of  it. 

Nevertheless  it  was  Dorothy  who  took  Morgan 
to  Win,  that  a  matter  of  so  much  importance  might 
be  duly  considered.  Bess,  who  had  never  failed  in 
courage  until  now,  confessed  she  was  not  equal  to 
this  test.  Win  thanked  the  young  lawyer  cordially 
for  his  proffered  help  and  went  with  him  to  Mr. 
Bartlett. 

The  famous  pleader  stroked  his  beard  in  a  state 
of  meditative  uneasiness  while  he  listened  to  the 


292  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

strange  proposition.  He  grunted,  as  was  his  habit 
when  he  was  pleased,  and  smiled  grandly  when  he 
saw  a  weak  spot  in  the  presentation. 

"  Not  half  bad,"  he  said  in  the  end,  "  not  half 
bad.  I'm  inclined  to  think  there's  the  making  of  a 
lawyer  in  you,  Thurston.  Of  course,  that's  not 
saying  you've  hit  on  a  feasible  plan  ;  but  it's 
tricky,  mighty  tricky.  You  see  I  haven't  thought 
of  you  as  a  dangerous  element  in  the  case  ;  but  the 
best  of  us  are  mistaken  sometimes,  and  perhaps 
you  might  cut  more  of  a  figure  against  us  than  I 
have  thought.  I  know  about  what  you  could  tes 
tify  to — Disbrow's  nervousness  when  you  met  him 
on  the  road  and  all  that.  In  these  big  cases  little 
things  count  for  a  good  deal  at  times.  The  jury 
has  to  bring  in  the  verdict,  and  no  one  can  ever  tell 
how  a  jury  will  cut  up.  But  I  think  I  can  make 
use  of  you,  Thurston,  and  if  you'll  agree  not  to  be 
disappointed  if  I  don't  work  out  the  idea  as  you've 
planned  it,  I'll  take  you  into  the  case.  I  want  to 
think  it  over." 

It  was  known  all  the  country  round  about,  within 
a  day  or  two,  that  Morgan  Thurston,  the  young 
lawyer  of  Lakeport,  was  to  appear  in  Lyman  Dis 
brow's  defense,  as  the  associate  of  Ed^nr  Bartlett. 
The  great  man  himself  spread  the  news  in  Smith- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  293 

boro.  It  was  commented  on  in  various  ways, 
mostly  as  indicative  of  the  great  man's  resource 
and  cunning,  for  had  he  not  recruited  the  defense 
from  the  ranks  of  the  enemy  ! 

Lawyer  Bartlett  was  prodded  upon  this  flattering 
interpretation  of  his  resourcefulness. 

"Moonshine,"  he  exclaimed  in  reply.  "  Thurs- 
ton  is  as  much  the  people's  witness  as  he  ever  was. 
He  is  not  privileged  to  keep  silent,  because  what  he 
knows  of  the  case  was  learned  before  he  assumed 
the  relation  of  counsel  to  Disbrow.  Of  course," 
he  said,  winking  knowingly,  "  it  would  be  out  of 
the  usual  procedure  for  the  people  to  call  him  to 
testify  against  his  own  client,  but  the  people  can 
do  it  if  they  want  to.  Young  Thurston  won't 
flinch  either.  He's  as  good  a  citizen  as  he  is  a 
lawyer.  I  took  him  as  a  lawyer  chiefly  for  the 
reason  that  I  wanted  someone  who  could  be  of 
help  to  me  in  making  up  the  jury.  You  know  it's 
all  with  the  jury.  We  lawyers  don't  amount  to  a 
hill  o'  beans,  anyway." 

But  folks-  would  not  stop  talking.  Lawyer  Bart 
lett  was  thought  a  bigger  man  than  ever.  But 
Morgan  did  not  stand  in  the  most  enviable  light  as 
the  rumour  grew  to  be  something  more  than  a 
whisper  that  he  had  been  bought  off.  Nor  did  the 


294  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

young  lawyer's  troubles  end  here.  As  he  found  it 
necessary  to  be  frequently  in  Smithboro  during  the 
summer,  and  on  these  visits  spent  much  of  his  time 
with  Bess  and  Dorothy,  the  tongues  of  the  gossips 
were  not  long  idle.  The  people  of  Smithboro  had 
eyes  in  their  heads.  That  there  had  been  an  es 
trangement  between  Win  and  Bess  was  a  truth  not 
to  be  hidden,  and  that  the  vacant  place  in  her  heart 
had  been  filled  by  another,  the  villagers  were  quick 
to  imagine — as,  in  an  unhealthy  state  of  morbid  fret- 
fulness,  they  told  off  the  lagging  days  to  the  time 
fixed  for  the  trial  of  the  picture-taker. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

LYMAN  DISBROW  was    under  sentence  of  death. 

He  had  been  pronounced  guilty  of  the  murder  of 
Cherry  Lemoire,  the  slave  girl,  by  a  jury  of  his 
peers  on  a  sullen  day  in  October,  when  from  out  a 
scowling  sky  there  came  a  patter  of  rain-drops  on 
the  court-house  panes,  and  the  murmur  of  far-away 
thunder  over  the  seared  hills.  The  wet  of  the  clouds 
and  the  warmth  of  the  earth  enshrouded  the  old 
town  in  a  steaming  fog.  Morristown  was  buried  in 
a  mist  of  tears. 

Lyme  had  passed  out  from  the  seat  of  justice  to 
the  cell  of  the  condemned  through  a  white-faced 
throng  bordered  on  either  side  by  bowed  heads. 
As  he  walked  with  downcast  eyes  across  the  jail- 
yard  to  the  ivy-grown  prison  a  matting  of  fallen 
leaves,  yellow  like  the  meadow-lark's  breast,  brown 
like  the  buckwheat  harvested  on  the  distant  fields, 
red  like  the  drip  of  a  new  wound  and  black  like  a 
band  of  mourning,  deadened  his  footfalls  on  the 
uneven  flags.  A  golden  harbinger  of  the  autumn 


296  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

fluttered  down  from  the  skeleton  fingers  of  an  oak 
bough  above  his  head. 

Lyme  stopped  short  in  his  walk,  and  stooping 
caught  up  a  handful  of  the  dead  leaves,  upon  which 
he  again  loosened  his  hold  to  let  them  drop  lightly 
at  his  feet. 

"They  never  harmed  nobuddy,  '  he  said,  with 
just  the  trace  of  a  smile  on  his  face  that  dimmed 
the  vision  of  the  guard  who  strode  beside  him. 

When  this  man  turned  the  key  in  the  cell  door, 
Lyme  was  whistling  the  old  tune. 

Everything  possible  had  been  done  to  save  Lyme 
from  this  fate.  Edgar  Bartlett's  fame  as  a  great 
lawyer  would  live  in  those  parts  if  he  had  never 
darkened  a  court-room  before  or  after.  It  had  been 
a  spectacular  trial.  At  the  very  outset,  when  the 
whole  country  was  wondering  whether  the  District 
Attorney  would  force  Morgan  Thurston  into  the 
witness  chair  to  accuse  his  own  client,  Bartlett  had 
closed  an  impassioned  opening  of  the  case  with  the 
surprising  declaration  that  the  defense  demanded 
that  his  young  associate  be  called  !  Throughout  the 
county  this  was  looked  upon  as  a  master  stroke  in 
criminal  practice.  It  acquitted  the  defense  of  any  in 
tent  to  take  an  unfair  advantage  of  the  prosecution. 
It  made  a  hero  of  Morgan,  for  he  went  on  the  stand 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  297 

with  such  a  flourish  that  the  District  Attorney  was 
utterly  disarmed.  It  was  admitted  everywhere 
that  that  official  staggered  under  this  turn  of  events. 
It  was  an  adroit  frustration  of  his  plan  to  leave 
Morgan  unsummoned,  with  the  object  in  view  of 
impressing  on  the  jury  in  the  summing  up  the  fact 
that  here  was  the  man  who,  skulking  behind  his 
professional  privileges,  was  cheating  the  gallows  of 
its  honest  prey.  But  the  wind  had  been  effect 
ually  taken  out  of  his  sails,  and  all  Morristown 
was  laughing  at  the  disconcerted  District  Attorney. 

"  We  made  up  our  minds  to  try  the  people's  case 
as  well  as  our  own,"  Lawyer  Bartlett  said  sportively 
where  he  sat  in  the  village  tavern  surrounded  by  a 
host  of  admiring  listeners  that  evening. 

But  the  District  Attorney  evened  the  score  when, 
as  a  final  witness,  he  called  Winfield  Scott  Disbrow 
and  wormed  out  of  him  scrap  by  scrap  the  damning 
admission  that  it  was  he  who  had  pencilled  the  mys 
terious  message  in  cipher  that  had  been  found  in  the 
picture-wagon.  Then  Win  was  compelled  to  put 
its  contents  into  plain  English,  and  thereby  to  ex 
pose  the  secrets  of  his  brotherhood,  a  revelation  he 
resisted  until  he  saw  that  every  question  was  being 
cunningly  framed  by  his  tormentor  to  beguile  the 
jury  rather  than  himself.  Of  this  exploit,  it  goes 


298  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

without  saying,  the  clever  lawyer  made  the  most  in 
his  closing  speech.  To  the  theatrical  appearance  of 
Morgan  Thurston  as  a  witness  he  pointed  as  a  con 
temptible  attempt  to  play  upon  the  sympathies  of 
the  jury,  that  through  the  blinding  mist  of  their 
tears  they  might  not  see  another  witness  sneak 
away  in  the  darkness  ! 

"  From  its  inception  to  its  accomplishment,"  the 
District  Attorney  said,  "  I  have  never  known  a 
scurvier  trick  to  be  practised  in  the  courts  of  this 
State."  He  was  still  smarting  under  the  ridicule 
that  had  been  heaped  on  him  as  the  prey  of  Edgar 
Bartlett's  cunning.  "  We  were  to  be  persuaded — 
you,  the  jury  were  to  be  persuaded — that  the  de 
fense  had  nothing  to  conceal,  that  its  record  was  an 
open  book,  that  it  asked  no  quarter,  and  begged  no 
mercy.  I  am  not  saying  whether  duty  would,  or 
wouldn't,  have  induced  me,  as  the  public  prose 
cutor,  to  call  Thurston  on  my  own  motion,  but 
you  have  seen  how  he  was  used  to  mask  the  real 
purpose  of  the  defense.  You  have  seen  it,  and 
maybe  like  myself  were  for  the  moment  deceived 
by  the  chicanery  of  it.  But  has  it  not  been  apparent 
that  my  distinguished  opponent  in  this  case  has 
attempted  to  trick  and  blind  you  ?  On  the  pretext 
of  being  willing  to  sacrifice  everything  to  get  at  the 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  299 

heart  of  the  mystery,  he  offered  Thurston  to  the  peo 
ple  as  a  witness,  letting  the  impression  go  abroad 
that  in  so  doing  he  was  aiding  the  prosecution. 
But  if  that  was  his  honest  purpose,  why  did  he  not 
go  a  step  further,  and  let  the  people  know  where 
the  prisoner's  son  stood  in  this  case  ?  I  should  like  my 
distinguished  friend  to  answer  that.  As  you  have 
seen,  gentlemen,  the  missing  link  in  this  chain  was 
the  authorship  of  the  cipher  message  sent  in  the 
floating  log,  and  the  only  man  in  the  world  who 
could  make  it  plain  was  Disbrow,  the  son.  Need  I 
dwell  on  this  sad  feature  of  this  trial?  I  think  not. 
But  I  want  you  to  remember  that  Winfield  Scott 
Disbrow  was  not  called  by  the  defense.  It  was  left 
to  the  people,  through  me,  as  their  humble  repre 
sentative,  to  drag  to  light  the  fearful  secret  hidden 
in  that  scrap  of  paper." 

Lyme's  own  protest,  when  he  went  on  the  witness 
stand,  that  he  knew  nothing  of  all  this,  and  that  the 
cipher  was  unknown  to  him,  the  District  Attorney 
laughed  to  scorn. 

"  It  was  the  poor  girl's  death  warrant,"  the  Dis 
trict  Attorney  cried.  "  I  do  not  say  that  Win  Dis 
brow  wanted  her  killed,  or  knew  she  would  be ; 
but  I  do  say  she  was  in  the  way — she  was  in  the 
way.  And  I  do  say  she  was  alive  in  the  prisoner's 


300  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

wagon  for  a  whole  day  and  was  dead  at  night.  I 
am  not  here,  gentlemen,  to  rake  up  the  ashes  of 
political  discord,  that  they  may  be  fanned  into 
flame  by  the  wind  of  passion.  A  temple  of  justice 
is  no  place  for  that.  But  we  must  not  lose  sight  of 
the  fact,  nevertheless,  that  upon  the  grave  questions 
of  governmental  policy  which  at  present  divide  this 
community,  this  prisoner  is  arrayed  on  one  side. 
It  is  in  the  evidence  of  this  case  that  he  has  never 
been  slow  to  show  his  hostility  to  the  negro  fugi 
tives  who,  we  know  from  the  evidence  of  his  own 
son,  are  being  hurried  through  the  North  to  places 
of  safety  on  foreign  shores.  Most  of  you  know 
where  I  stand  on  this  question  and  know  that  I 
speak  with  no  prejudice  against  this  man's  hatred  of 
the  black  race.  But  I  am  in  duty  bound  to  insist 
that  it  was  a  misfortune  to  this  murdered  woman  to 
have  been  taken  under  the  care  of  one  who  had  no 
sympathy  for  her  kind.  It  would  not  have  been 
her  choice  or  the  choice  of  those  who  succored  her. 
I  am  impelled  to  say  this  with  sorrow,  but  I  am 
speaking  as  an  instrument  of  the  law,  and  have  no 
alternative." 

The  passions  of  men  were  not  so  lightly  stirred 
in  those  days  that  a  plea  so  specious  would  miss  its 
purpose.  Known,  as  the  District  Attorney  was,  to 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  301 

be  a  sympathizer  with  relentless  execution  of  the 
Fugitive  Slave  Law,  this  bit  of  pettifogging  was 
hailed  as  a  marvellous  exhibition  of  zeal  on  his 
part,  and  it  had  the  desired  effect  on  a  jury  well 
known  to  be  of  anti-slavery  predilections. 

"  As  to  the  motive  for  this  crime,"  the  prosecutor 
continued,  "  the  doctors  have  told  you  what  that 
was.  I  leave  the  sickening,  the  horrible,  details  of 
what  it  must  have  been,  to  your  imagination — you 
gentlemen  who  have  wives  and  daughters.  Cherry 
Lemoire  was  a  beautiful  woman,  but  a  slave,  a  run 
away  slave,  whose  life  under  our  laws  was  her 
master's,  but  her  honour  was  her  own.  If  she  died 
protecting  it,  what  is  our  duty  towards  her  slayer  ? 
I  tell  you  gentlemen,  the  civilized  world  is  watching 
you  to-day.  In  a  sense,  this  wretched  woman  was 
a  hostage  in  the  North.  Think  of  that.  If  there 
be  those  amongst  us  who  would  teach  our  brethren 
in  the  South  that  there  is  a  line  at  which  in  the 
treatment  of  these  people — these  slaves — brutality 
must  stop  and  humanity  must  begin,  let  us  not  fail 
to  mark  it.  A  human  life  has  been  taken,  a  black 
woman's  though  it  be,  and  a  life  must  pay  the  for 
feit.  That  is  God's  law,  as  well  as  man's." 

Swayed  by  a  process  of  reasoning  no  better  than 
this  Lyman  Disbrow  has  been  convicted  of  Cherry 
Lemoire's  murder. 


302  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

Lyme's  genial  philosophy  was  his  support  and 
prop  through  it  all.  He  whistled  more  industriously 
than  ever.  He  had  no  fault  to  find  with  what  had 
been  done  on  his  behalf,  and,  when  informed  of  the 
steps  being  taken  to  secure  a  new  trial,  expressed 
himself  as  pleased,  but  without  being  lifted  to  any 
thing  like  heights  of  enthusiasm.  The  one  sorrow 
that  weighed  him  down  was  the  knowledge  that  a 
spectre  had  come  between  Win  and  Bess.  Of  this 
he  often  talked  during  the  winter,  which  with 
ghost-like  tread  was  abroad  in  the  land.  Win  and 
Bess  went  to  see  him  at  Morristown,  frequently 
making  the  journey  over  the  drifted  roads  at  no 
little  pains — but  they  never  came  together.  They 
had  met  inside  the  jail  once  or  twice, — on  one  occa 
sion  when  Morgan  had  driven  Bess  over.  To  neither 
had  Lyme  broached  the  hope  that,  whatever  hap 
pened,  their  happiness  might  not  be  sacrificed. 
How  could  he  ask  this  girl  to  be  the  mother  of 
children  who  would  be  taught  to  lisp  no  word  of 
love  for  the  grandfather  whose  name  they  bore  ? 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  jail-yard  was  ringing  with  the  blows  of  the 
carpenters'  hammers.  They  had  been  at  it  out 
there  since  dawn,  and  Lyme  had  grown  used  to  the 
dismal  sound,  as  he  had  grown  used  to  every  other 
note  of  ominous  import  that  led  up  to  the  day 
of  execution.  The  strokes  were  rueful,  fateful, 
sepulchral,  though  they  betokened  nothing  save  the 
sharp  impact  of  iron  against  iron  as  the  nails  were 
driven  through  the  timbers.  It  makes  ghastly  music 
to  build  as  they  were  building,  with  a  gallows  for  a 
sounding-board.  Men's  voices,  too,  in  that  gloomy 
pile  of  ivy-covered  limestone  came  to  the  ear  as 
uncannily  as  echoes  in  a  cavern. 

It  was  all  over  and  Lyme  knew  it.  When,  in  com 
pany  with  Win,  Lawyer  Bartlett  had  gone  to  the 
jail  to  tell  him  that  the  law's  intricacies  had  been 
searched  in  vain  for  a  remaining  hope,  that  the 
Governor  would  not  put  forth  a  succoring  hand,  he 
listened  without  sign  of  fear.  This  scene  wrung 
Win's  heart  as  it  had  not  been  wrung  before.  A 


304  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

thousand  times  more  painful  was  his  father's  resig 
nation  than  if  they  could  have  wept  out  their  sorrow 
on  each  other's  breasts.  The  lawyer  knew  what  it 
meant  when  Win  walked  down  the  corridor  out  of 
sight. 

"  It'll  hit  him  hard,  Disbrow,"  Bartlett  said. 
"  And  I  don't  know  but  you're  making  it  worse  for 
him,  trying  to  keep  up — trying,  did  I  say?  You're 
doing  it.  This  is  martyrdom,  this  killing  of  you,  and 
you're  dying  like  a  martyr.  I've  seen  many  a  man 
in  your  fix,  Disbrow,  but  you  take  the  rag  off  the 
bush  for  cold  nerve." 

"  O  I'm  jest  tryin'  to  take  things  as  they  come  ; 
that's  all  I'm  doin','*  Lyme  replied.  "  As  to  nerve, 
p'rhaps  I  ain't  got  any.  I  didn't  ever  tell  you,  did  I, 
'bout  Joel  Barto,  the  fellow  that  invented  the 
famous  Barto  patent  churn  ?  The  contrivance  wa'n't 
much  of  a  go  when  he  started  in  with  it  over  in 
Cazenovia  where  he  sot  up  makin'  'em  for  the 
market.  You  see  he  kinder  run  short  o'  capital,  and 
thought  as  how  he'd  take  some  other  fellers  in  to 
help  him  'long.  One  day  he  got  hold  of  Delos 
Todd,  who  you  mayn't  know  is  'bout  as  slick  as  they 
come.  He  kept  bank  over  in  Oneida.  Well,  as  I 
am  tellin'  you,  Joel  and  Delos  sat  down  beside  the 
churn  to  look  it  over.  He  was  a  talky  cuss,  Joel 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  305 

was,  and  Delos  was  beginnin'  to  see  things  jest  as 
the  inventor  wanted  him  to,  when  suthin  mighty 
peculiai  happened.  Delos  was  lookin'  at  Joel, 
when  he  saw  a  fly  light  square  on  Joel's  eye-ball  an' 
stay  there — yes  sir,  stay  there — Joel  never  movin'  a 
muscle.  That  fly  jest  walked  up  an'  down  that  eye 
ball  as  independent  as  a  hog  on  ice — an'  Joel,  he 
took  no  more  consarn  'bout  it  than  if  it  was  on  top 
o'  the  house.  Delos  couldn't  jest  go  that.  He 
jest  got  up  an'  dusted,  saying  he  had  to  git  hum 
for  supper,  or  to  lock  the  bank  safe,  or  suthin.  He 
said  arterwards, — not  to  Joel,  who  never  knew  what 
struck  him — that  he  didn't  care  to  have  any  dealin's 
with  a  feller  who  had  so  much  nerve  he  could  let  a 
fly  play  tag  on  his  eye-ball.  You  see  he  didn't 
know  that  Joel  had  a  glass  eye.  He  didn't  have 
any  more  nerve  than  the  rest  on  us.  P'rhaps  my 
nerve's  made  o'  glass." 

"  By  the  Great  Horn  Spoon,  Disbrow,  I  guess 
'tis,  I  guess  'tis,"  was  the  lawyer's  reply.  "  Your 
heart  is  glass  anyway.  I  can  read  you  right  through 
it.  But  those  jurors  were  as  blind  as  bats.  This 
thing's  the  damnedest  outrage  on  justice  I  ever  knew 
anything  about.  It  makes  a  man  sick  he  ever  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  law.  A  glass  heart  ?  Yes, 
that's  just  what  you've  got,  but  that  jury  couldn't 


306  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

look  into  its  depths  with  those  Abolition  eyes  of 
theirs.  They're  going  to  hang  you  to-morrow  not 
for  what  you  did,  but  for  what  you  said.  It's  all 
up  and  I'm  here  to  say  good-bye." 

And  these  two  men  said  the  final  word  with  hands 
clasped  and  smiles  on  their  lips. 

It  was  May  of  the  year.  It  had  been  a  backward 
spring  with  leaden  skies  and  a  cold  chill  in  the  air. 
For  days  not  a  ray  of  sunlight  had  peeked  into  the 
dungeon.  To-day — the  day  before  the  end — it 
poured  down  upon  the  bleak  walls  as  if  it  would 
wrap  the  bars  in  a  white  heat  and  melt  them  in  their 
sockets.  The  songs  of  the  birds  filtered  through 
the  massive  walls — the  picture-taker's  old  friends 
the  birds  !  They  would  see  him  merrily  on  his  way  ! 
The  carpenters'  hammers  could  not  silence  them. 
Pound  as  mercilessly  as  you  will,  you  blind  hire 
lings  of  a  blinder  justice,  yon  gallows  tree  will  rot 
at  its  foundations  ere  you  drown  their  parting  carol  ! 

The  preacher  had  come  to  say  farewell  to  his 
brother.  They  sat  down  together  in  the  corridor 
where  the  sun  fell  full  in  their  faces. 

"  I  have  never  spoken  to  you,  brother,"  the  preach 
er  said,  "  of  those  things  which  concern  your  spirit 
ual  welfare." 

"  We've  followed  our  two  trades  'long  different 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  307 

paths,"  Lyme  replied,  as  his  brother  ..esitated  for  a 
word. 

"  I  have  refrained  from  exercising  my  prerogative 
as  a  minister  of  God,"  the  preacher  went  on,  "  be 
cause,  Lyme,  I  have  not  known  many  men  who 
were  better.  More  religious  men  I  have  known, 
men  who  come  nearer  what  I  have  been  taught  and 
verily  believe  is  the  Christ-like  ideal  ;  but  that  you 
have  been  a  good  man,  good  to  most  men,  and  to 
yourself  less  than  all,  I  know." 

"Perhaps  that's  why  I'm  goin'  to  die  young," 
Lyme  said,  smiling  grimly. 

"  Sooner  or  later,  we  all  must  die,  Lyman,"  said 
the  preacher.  He  was  holding  the  picture-taker's 
hands  fast  in  his  own  and  looking  straight  into  his 
eyes.  "  I  come  to-day  as  your  brother  in  the  flesh, 
not  your  brother  in  the  Lord.  Were  I  not  a  clergy 
man,  I  would  be  a  believer  in  the  divinity  of  the 
Saviour,  in  the  completeness  of  His  forgiveness  of 
sin,  in  His  power  to  save  souls.  Let's  forget  that  I 
ever  lift  up  my  voice  by  such  authority  as  the  church 
gives.  In  the  pulpit  I  preach  that  salvation  is 
secure  only  through  Christ  and  Him  crucified.  I 
preach  this  because  I  believe  it,  as  I  believe  you 
have  never  laid  a  finger  by  way  of  harm  on  a  living 
thing.  I  should  be  afraid  to  die  without  believing 


308  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

as  I  do.  Yet,  brother,  I  may  be  wrong.  The  life 
of  common  honesty,  of  common  goodness,  that  you 
have  led  may  stand  as  well  on  the  Judgment  Day 
as  that  of  professed  religion,  which  I  try  to  live. 
God  help  us  all,  I  trust  the  atonement  of  sins  means 
nothing  less  than  this.  But,  believing  as  I  do,  I 
want  to  stand  on  the  threshold  of  eternal  life  with 
you,  confident,  serene,  hand  in  hand,  as  a  brother 
should.  Let  me  not  harbour  for  the  moment,  in 
these  dreadful  last  moments,  the  thought  that  for 
all  eternity  you  are  not  safe." 

Lyme's  face  wore  a  reverent  look.  He  remained 
silent  while  his  brother  prayed. 

"  We  can  stand  hand  in  hand  wherever  they  put 
us,  Ab,"  Lyme  said  at  last.  "  Our  God  is  mother's 
God,  and  I've  never  had  no  other.  To  my  thinkin' 
he's  such  a  good  God  that  we  needn't  go  huntin' 
him  as  some  preacher  I  once  heard — p'rhaps  it  was 
you — called  '  up  doctrinal  heights.'  But  honestly, 
Ab,  I'd  be  lyin'  on  the  brink  of  the  grave  if  I  told 
you  I  thought  what's  to  come  fur  all  time  was  to  be 
all  good  or  all  bad  accordin'  to  what  I'd  done  down 
here.  That  wouldn't  be  a  fair  shake,  Ab,  an'  a 
good  God — yourn,  an'  mine  an'  mother's — wouldn't 
make  it  that  way.  God  don't  make  mistakes  same's 
men  do.  He  wouldn't  be  God  if  He  didn't  have 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  309 

a  way  o'  rightin'  things  if  men  got  'em  wrong.  God 
wouldn't  be  any  better'n  a  jedge  an'  a  jury  if  that 
wa'n't  so.  It  don't  seem  to  me,  an'  never  has,  that 
a  man  could  crowd  enough  hellishness  into  this 
little  spell  o'  weather  we  call  life  to  earn  damnation 
till  the  crack  o'  doom.  That's  man's  fashion  of  doin' 
things,  not  God's,  Ab,  an  I'm  talkin'  'bout  your  God 
an'  mother's  God  an'  mine." 

The  preacher  was  content.  His  cheeks  were  wet 
with  tears. 

"  Mother's  God  is  all  sufficient,"  he  said  and  again 
bowed  his  head  in  prayer. 

"Twa'n't  like  you,  Ab,  to  see  this  thing  in  any 
other  light,"  remarked  Lyme,  as  he  rose,  and,  with 
hands  folded  behind  him,  walked  back  and  forth  in 
the  sunny  glow.  "  You  were  allus  like  mother." 

"  If  mother  were  here  now,  brother,  what  would 
she  say  to  us — grown  men  as  we  are,  but  more  in 
need  of  a  mother's  love  to-day  than  ever  we  were  in 
our  lives — what  would  she  say  ?  " 

The  preacher  felt  that  the  parting  hour  had 
come.  Doubtless  the  law  would  not  be  so  savage 
as  to  snatch  its  victim  from  his  side  without  giving 
as  many  opportunities  for  talk  as  the  fleeting  time 
would  afford  ;  but  now,  if  ever,  it  was  pitifully  appar 
ent  that  the  brothers  must  say  whatever  was  to  be 


3io  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

said  that  no  other  ears  should  hear.  Yet  the  man  of 
God  knew  not  what  to  say.  Lyme's  eyes  rested 
wistfully  on  his  brother's  agonized  face,  and  he 
seemed  to  understand. 

"  I  guess  I  know  what's  on  your  mind,  Ab,"  the 
picture-taker  saicl.  "  You're  kinder  up  the  stump. 
You  wonder  why  I  seem  to  be  takin'  my  medicine 
in  this  mess  I've  got  into  without  makin'  all  sorts  o' 
faces  an'  bellerin'  like  a  baby.  You're  as  sure  as 
kin  be  that  I  never  done  this  thing,  an' — Oh,  I 
know,  Ab,  don't  say  nary  a  word — you're  sure  on 
it,  and  that's  'nough.  But  you  wonder  why  I 
haven't  said  I  wa'n't  guilty.  You  remember 
mother,  how  when  we'd  been  blamed  fur  doin' 
suthin' — maybe  we  had,  an'  maybe  we  hadn't — an' 
p'raps  dad'd  laid  on  the  gad — she'd  come  stealin' 
into  our  room,  after  we'd  gone  to  bed,  an'  jest  look 
at  us  an'  look  at  us  with  the  candle  where  we  could 
see  her  face  an'  she  could  see  ourn.  She  knew 
without  askin'  us  how  bad  we'd  been.  I  never  dast 
look  at  her  if  everything  wa'n't  all  right.  There 
weren't  no  other  eyes  like  her'n  in  all  the  world. 
I've  seen  times,  Ab,  when  your  eyes  looked  like 
mother's.  They  do  now,  an',  Ab,  I'm  not  hidin' 
my  face  in  the  pillow,  same's  I  did  when  we'd  been 
up  to  suthin'.  Am  I  now  ?  " 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  311 

The  preacher  reached  forth  and  folded  his 
brother  to  him  in  a  strong  embrace.  There  was 
silence  between  the  men  for  a  long  time.  At  last 
the  preacher  spoke. 

"  And  you'll  see  mother  there,"  he  said,  "  if 
they Oh,  my  God,  it's  cruel,  cruel,  cruel !  " 

"  If  they  kill  me  out  there  on  that  gallus,"  was 
Lyme's  calm  wording  of  his  brother's  unexpressed 
dread.  "  Yes,  Ab,  I'll  see  her,  an'  that  ain't  so 
bad,  is  it  ?  I've  made  up  my  mind  to  it,  Ab,  an'  I 
guess  I've  got  to  go  through  with  it.  You'll  say  I 
ain't  much  of  a  Christian — an'  I  guess  you've  got 
it  'bout  right — but  there  must  be  somewheres  to 
go  after  a  feller's  passed  in  his  checks,  somewheres 
where  the  birds  sing.  I've  been  thinkin'  it  over  an' 
there  must  be  some  such  place — some  place  where 
trouble  ends.  You  remember,  Ab,  don't  you,  how 
mother  used  to  like  to  hear  us  laugh  ?  I  can't  git  it 
out  my  old  noddle  that  some  way  or  t'other  mother 
an'  Heaven  go  together.  If  that's  so,  there's  goin' 
to  be  lots  of  children  laughin'  till  they  can't  stop, 
an'  jest  fillin'  the  hull  world  with  innocent  joy. 
That  'ould  be  a  purtier  picture  to  me,  Ab,  than  a 
lot  of  grown  folks  sittin'  on  the  wet  edge  of  a 
cloud  playin'  jew's-harps.  Anyways,  there  ain't 
goin'  to  be  any  cryin', — an'  say,  Ab,  I  want  you  to 


3i2  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

tell  'em  all  not  to  cry  'bout  me — Win  and  Bess  an' 
all — 'cause  it's  all  right ;  it's  all  right.  We've  got 
to  shake  hands  an'  say  good-bye,  but  I  want  it 
cheerful,  jest  as  if  I  was  steppin'  into  that  old 
wagon  o'  mine  an'  goin'  down  the  road  behind  Old 
Ironsides.  I'd  have  to  go  bimeby,  an'  what's  the 
odds  ?  Jest  you  make  up  your  mind,  Ab,  I'm  goiri' 
down  the  road.  I  want  you  to  look  at  it  that  ways — 
an'  Win  an'  Bess,  tell  'em  that's  how  I'd  like  it. 
Doggone  it,  Ab,  it's  got  to  be  that  way,  an'  no 
other." 

The  preacher  bore  this  message  to  the  outer  world. 
Its  mandate  was  respected  as  one  after  another  of 
those  nearest  and  dearest  to  the  doomed  man 
hurried  past  the  death  shadows  that  brooded  over 
the  prison,  where,  fortified  and  strengthened  by  this 
happy  conceit  of  what  his  infamous  end  was  to  be, 
he  met  them  without  a  quiver  of  the  lip,  without  a 
furtive  tear,  building  up  an  illusion  in  the  dungeon 
that  flooded  it  with  the  glorious  light  of  hope. 
There  were  no  agonizing  leavetakings,  even  when 
Bess  came,  as  she  understood  for  the  last  time — for 
she  was  to  be  spared  the  trial  of  a  sojourn  in  Mor- 
risto\vn  until  the  morrow. 

To  Win  the  dreadful  day  was  like  a  dream.  His 
vision  would  not  pierce  the  dark  beyond.  Before 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  313 

his  eyes  there  showed  a  rainbow.  He  could  not 
but  see  it  in  his  father's  face,  serenely  cheerful  to 
the  end,  that  the  storm  had  passed. 

"  I'm  jest  goin'  down  the  road  to-morrer,"  Lyme 
said,  and  that  was  all.  It  was  a  consoling  fancy, 
truly,  and  dried  the  tears  of  woe. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Till-:  village  folk  who  saw  Bess  Malcolm  drive  into 
Smithboro,  about  the  middle  of  th.it  afternoon,  liad 
little  j>ity  in  their  facets.  Inasmuch  as  Morgan 
Thtirston  came  with  her  they  wisely  wagged  their 
he. ids  and  declared  what  they  had  been  saying  all 
along  was  true.  There  was  no  shelter  from  this 
unkind  gossip  even  in  the  presence  of  the  preacher's 
wife,  whose  escort,  as  well  as  Ness's,  the  young 
lawyer  had  been  on  that  dismal  ride.  As  it 
happened  it  was  sheer  luck  which  brought  him, 
though  for  hisown  part  he  had  an  object  in  cowing, 
aside  from  a  chivalrous  tender  of  his  company, 
which  no  amount  of  pressing  would  have  made  of 
avail  had  not  Hess  remembered  that  all  hearts  in 
the  world  were  not  bleeding  like  her  own. 

"Thank  you."  Hess  had  said  when  Morgan  offered 
to  drive  with  her.  "  My  sister  and  I  can  get  along 
very  well,  and  Dorothy  is  to  meet  us  at  the  house, 
.ind  remain  with  me  until  for  a  day  or  two.  I 
would  accept  your  kindness  if  I  thought  it  necessary, 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  315 

but  it  really  isn't.  I  know  what  I  must  do  and  am 
going  to  do  it." 

Dorothy's  name  had  not  been  spoken  without 
effect.  To  the  fact  that  Bess  had  noted  it  through 
her  dimmed  eyes  was  due  the  fortunate  presence  of 
a  safe  counsellor,  in  the  emergency  which  faced  them 
when  they  arrived  at  the  preacher's  gate  to  find 
Dick  Richards  awaiting  their  coming.  The  negro 
arose  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  dooryard  like  a 
ghostly  thing.  In  Bess's  sight,  affrighted  as  she  was 
by  the  dread  of  the  man  that  connected  him  with 
every  evil-omened  event  in  her  life,  he  looked  a  mon 
ster  from  whose  approach  she  shrank  back  in  mortal 
terror.  What  new  misery  did  this  visitation  por 
tend  ?  No  wonder  the  terrifying  image  of  every 
thing  that  was  making  her  heart  to  stand  still  was 
in  the  girl's  face,  and  Thurston  marked  it  at  a 
single  glance. 

What  he  saw  was  a  stout  fellow,  seemingly  spent 
by  travel,  holding  fast  to  the  gate-post.  The  great 
globes  of  Dick's  restless  eyes  were  blood-shot.  His 
brows  were  knit  and  his  jaws  were  set.  There  was 
a  terrible  earnestness  in  his  look  that  might  be 
mistaken  for  vile  intent  or  the  wringing  of  a  soul ; 
the  human  face  mirrors  feelings  in  such  a  diversity 
of  fashions.  Thurston  did  not  pretend  to  decipher 


3i6  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

it.  Too  plainly  he  observed  that  it  was  no  common 
fear  that  this  man  had  inspired.  Drawing  close  he 
discovered  that  he  confronted  a  negro.  It  came  to 
him  as  a  shock. 

"  Richards  ?  "  he  inquired,  speaking  to  Bess. 

She  bent  her  head  to  confirm  the  conjecture. 
Thurston  did  not  stand  unmoved.  Was  this  the 
man,  he  thought,  who,  rather  than  the  other,  should 
stand  under  the  gibbet  to-morrow  ?  The  name  this 
negro  bore  had  been  on  the  lips  of  people  when  they 
talked  of  Cherry  Lemoire's  murder,  but  aside  from 
a  fruitless  search  made  for  him  as  a  witness,  he  had 
not  come  into  the  case  as  an  important  factor.  As 
if  he  would  tear  out  the  heart  of  him  that  its  secret 
might  be  read,  Thurston  fixed  his  gaze  on  that 
scowling  riddle  of  a  face.  He  would  have  spoken 
first  but  Richards  stopped  his  mouth  by  saying  he 
had  come  a  long  way  to  tell  Bess  something.  His 
voice  was  the  voice  of  a  man  not  to  be  denied  and 
Thurston,  as  well  as  Bess,  felt  what  he  said  to  be  in 
the  nature  of  a  command. 

While  Thurston  paced  the  gravelled  walk  the 
others  went  within  stunned  if  not  stupefied  by  the 
horror  of  it  all.  Bess  was  no  longer  mistress  of  her 
faculties,  following  simply  where  she  was  led 
through  the  open  door  in  which  Dorothy  stood  with 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  317 

outstretched  arms,  promising  with  a  smile  that,  even 
though  the  chill  of  death  lay  within,  there  would  be 
a  warmth  of  hearts  at  that  hearthstone. 

"  I  shall  not  be  far  off,"  Thurston  said.  It  was 
in  answer  to  a  beseeching  look  Bess  gave  him  as  she 
disappeared  through  the  cottage  door  behind  the 
negro,  her  sister  and  her  friend. 

A  minute,  not  more,  had  elapsed  when  Bess 
staggered  back  again.  She  had  come  to  call  the 
young  lawyer,  but  her  voice  failed  for  words  and 
broke  into  a  wild,  unnatural,  hysterical  cry.  A  step 
or  two  took  Thurston  to  her  side,  and  he  was  not 
too  soon,  for  he  caught  her  as  she  reeled  in  a  swoon 
from  the  threshold  of  the  door. 

Bess  had  heard  an  awful  truth  that  lifted  the  veil 
of  mystery  from  the  murder  in  the  Lakeport  ravine. 
Cherry  Lemoire's  life  had  been  taken  by  Dick  Rich 
ards.  It  was  an  alternative  of  the  slave  girl's  own 
choosing  according  to  the  grim  recital  of  the  only 
man  who  could  tell  the  story ;  for  she  might  have 
lived  on  his  hideous  terms,  poor  wretch.  Was  it  not 
a  story  to  make  the  blood  run  cold  !  What  marvel 
that,  as  it  was  summed  up  in  a  half-dozen  words, 
the  negro's  confession  struck  down  one  weak  woman. 
Thurston  was  hearing  it  now,  and  if  he  had  possessed 
the  courage  of  a  thousand  men,  he  too,  would  have 


318  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

quailed  as,  in  a  state  of  emotional  frenzy,  the  self- 
confessed  murderer  laid  bare  his  guilty  soul,  from 
the  moment  he  first  conceived  the  crime  to  its  dread 
accomplishment.  How  he  skulked  in  the  shadow 
of  Win  Disbrow  and  intercepted  the  message  in  the 
floating  log  ;  how,  thus  informed  of  the  plan  for  the 
slave  girl's  departure  from  Smithboro,  he  was  at  hand 
to  guide  her  when  she  fled  despairing  from  the  roof 
of  her  protectors ;  how,  by  striking  across  country 
through  by-paths  it  had  been  his  habit  to  pursue  when 
his  errands  were  errands  of  mercy,  he  had  outfooted 
the  picture-wagon  to  the  ravine ;  how  by  cries  of 
distress  he  had  decoyed  the  picture-taker  into  its  re 
cesses,  and,  having  the  girl  at  his  mercy,  had  dragged 
her  into  the  woods  to  let  her  say  whether  she  would 
live  or  die — these  were  the  brutal  truths  of  his  tell 
ing.  Silent  the  others  listened.  No  word  passed  the 
negro's  lip  that,  rudely  or  otherwise,  was  designed 
to  strike  a  sympathetic  chord.  The  horrible  malice 
of  the  deed  was  without  extenuation.  As  a  fero 
cious  monster,  endowed  with  the  divine  gift  of  speech, 
he  doggedly  uncovered  the  vileness  of  his  fearful 
purpose.  There  was  no  touch  of  pity  in  it  all  ;  no 
remorse  that  his  hands  smelled  of  blood.  A  heart 
of  stone  ;  a  mind  of  leaden  mould  !  Yet  there  was 
the  impress  of  one  simple,  noble  thought — a  dog's 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  319 

gratitude  for  what  Elizabeth  Malcolm  had  done  for 
him.  This  had  brought  him  to  her  now,  by  his  own 
word  dooming  himself  to  death,  that  she  might  have 
her  heart's  wish — not  that  an  innocent  life  might  be 
spared,  not  that  a  black  crime  might  be  adequately 
expiated.  There  was  no  pretense  of  such  heroism 
in  his  confession. 

Thus  the  murderer  gave  himself  up. 

"  I'se  done  ready,  Missy  Bess,  ter  took  dat  ol' 
man's  place,"  the  negro  said  in  a  voice  that  abso 
lutely  had  no  trace  of  feeling  in  it.  "  Y'u  done 
bought  dis  black  man  wid  y'u  own  money,  an'  I 
jess  wants  ter  pay  y'u  back." 

When  the  negro  was  done  Thurston  sat  lost  in 
thought. 

"  No  man  all  white,  no  man  all  black,"  he  was 
thinking,  "  would  put  his  crime  or  his  repentance  in 
such  a  light.  Which  is  the  better  part  of  him — the 
black  or  the  white  ?  " 

But  this  was  the  metaphysics  of  the  matter. 
Like  cobwebs  Morgan  brushed  them  aside.  What 
was  there  to  do  ?  What  to  be  done  to  make  this 
strangest  of  revelations  effective.  The  hangman's 
noose  dangled  over  the  head  of  an  innocent  man  ! 

The  lawyer  knew  that  but  one  instrument  could 
stay  the  hand  of  the  executioner.  Therefore  he 


320  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

set  himself  the  task  of  getting  the  Governor's  re 
prieve.  While  he  drove  north  with  the  negro  at 
his  side  to  catch  the  night  train  to  Albany  at 
Canasango,  it  was  to  be  Bess's  mission  to  get  back 
to  Morristown  with  word  of  what  they  hoped  to 
do,  and  Dorothy  was  to  bear  her  company.  It 
was  to  be  a  wild  chase  to  Canasango,  a  good  twelve 
miles  away,  where  the  night  train  was  due  to  pass 
at  six  o'clock,  and  it  was  now  lacking  a  scant  half- 
hour  of  five.  If  all  went  well  it  was  Thurston's 
calculation  that  he  would  be  in  Albany  before  mid 
night,  and,  a  life  being  at  stake,  he  had  no  doubt 
the  reprieve  would  be  in  his  hands  in  time  to  let 
him  take  the  morning  train  starting  from  Albany  at 
six  o'clock  and  arriving  at  Canasango  at  noon. 

Upon  Bess  and  Dorothy  rested  as  grave  a  re 
sponsibility  as  his  own.  Though  the  law  claimed 
the  forfeit  of  Lyman  Disbrow's  life  no  later  than 
twelve  o'clock,  their  injunction  was  that  by 
entreaty,  by  threat,  by  fair  means  or  foul,  defying 
the  course  of  the  sun  in  its  resistless  progress,  the 
bright  orb  of  day  must  reach  no  meridian  in  Mor 
ristown  on  the  morrow  until  there  was  time  to  lay 
the  Governor's  reprieve  in  the  Sheriff's  hands. 

So  it  happened  that  the  hangman  was  held  at  bay 
by  a  power  no  more  potent  than  a  woman's  tears. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

MORRISTOWN  had  no  other  business  on  hand  this 
day  than  to  put  Lyme  Disbrow  to  death.  It  went 
about  it  in  a  cold-blooded  way  after  the  fashion  of  a 
village  that  thought  itself  as  much  better  than  its 
neighbours  as  the  county  seat  could  make  it.  A 
hanging  now  and  then  was  something  on  which  the 
inn-keepers  of  Morristown  counted  as  a  legitimate 
source  of  profit,  and  in  anticipation  of  which  they 
always  laid  in  extra  supplies  with  a  keen  notion  of 
enterprise  that,  it  is  fair  to  say,  had  never  been  dis 
appointed. 

This  day  the  village  awoke  to  find  its  streets 
already  alive  and  doing.  There  had  been  a  con 
siderable  influx  of  farmer-folk  before  daybreak,  the 
sound  of  whose  whirling  wheels  had  breached  the 
winking  hours  of  dawn,  ere  even  the  birds  who 
nested  in  the  ivy  on  the  prison  walls  were  happily 
astir.  By  breakfast  time  there  was  not  a  hitching 
post  on  the  main  street  that  remained  unclaimed, 
so  that  the  later  comers  were  forced  to  make  a 


322  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

choice  between  stabling  at  the  taverns  and  paying 
for  the  privilege,  or  hunting  what  few  vacant  places 
were  left  under  the  church  sheds.  An  hour  later 
the  tardy  ones  were  tying  their  horses  to  the  fences 
and  trees  in  a  gradually  widening  area  of  pre 
empted  territory.  Each  vehicle  set  down  its  full 
complement  of  good  people,  who  made  haste  to 
join  the  throng  that  headed  for  the  jail,  leaving  every 
thing  behind  except  their  whips,  which  were  borne 
away  as  if  to  emphasize  the  sorry  truth  that  there 
is  a  point  beyond  which  common  honesty  cannot 
be  trusted. 

The  temper  of  the  crowd,  as  it  grew  larger  and 
larger,  was  neither  doleful  nor  exultant.  It  moved 
to  and  fro  as  the  fit  took  it,  in  a  holiday  mood  as 
aimless  as  it  was  harmless.  It  talked  only  now  and 
then  of  the  baleful  spectacle  that  was  to  be  enacted 
there  that  day.  A  firecracker  drowns  the  thunder 
of  the  mighty  call  to  arms  that  Thomas  Jefferson 
wrote  into  the  Declaration  of  Independence  !  Is 
the  manger  of  Bethlehem  always  in  our  thoughts 
when  we  take  down  our  Christmas  stockings? 
These  honest  men  and  women  who  came  to  Morris- 
town  to  get  within  the  shadow  of  the  scaffold  were 
more  apt  to  gossip  of  their  household  chores  than 
drop  a  word,  either  of  sympathy  or  horror  unfor- 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  323 

giving,  of  the  hapless  man  whose  doom  was  near 
at  hand.  That  hempen  symbol  of  the  law,  hanging 
from  a  beam  in  yonder  yard,  meant  nothing  in 
particular  to  most  of  these  good  people.  They 
would  stare  idly  at  the  forbidding  walls,  pass  the 
time  of  day  with  their  neighbours,  do  their  trading, 
munch  their  cheese  and  crackers  on  the*court-house 
steps,  and,  after  all  was  over,  wend  their  several 
ways  homeward,  no  wiser,  no  better,  no  worse. 
To  be  sure,  there  were  those  abroad  that  day  who 
said  that  Lyme  Disbrow  deserved  a  better  fate, 
and  if  there  were  not  many  to  say  it,  it  was  because 
his  friends  had  found  it  easier  to  stay  away.  Some 
of  the  meanest  of  the  throng  jested  of  what  was  to 
happen.  Others  still  gilded  their  hatred  in  biblical 
phrase  and  made  blasphemy  preferable. 

Where  the  sightseers  flocked  in  greatest  numbers, 
opposite  the  very  door  of  the  jail,  a  noisy  pedlar 
hawked  his  pinchbeck  wares  in  a  strident  sing-song. 
The  hired  man  who  bought  his  simpering  compan 
ion  a  tawdry  breast-pin  from  this  pack  saw  nothing 
ghoulish  in  the  transaction.  A  husky  yokel,  much 
the  worse  for  liquor,  reeled  by,  jeered  by  a  juvenile 
mob  tagging  at  his  heels.  Strutting  about  in  the 
full  pride  of  a  little  brief  authority  were  a  dozen 
men  or  so,  who  wore  upon  their  breasts  the  shining 


324  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

badges  of  their  office.  They  were  Deputy  Sheriffs, 
sworn  in  for  the  day,  to  keep  the  peace,  and  were 
much  to  be  envied,  as  things  went,  because  they 
were  to  "  see  the  old  man  swing." 

Stretching  over  the  main  street,  to  the  extreme 
height  of  the  cornices  at  either  side,  was  a  great 
rope,  the  purpose  of  which  was  not  revealed  until 
the  gymnast  who  was  to  tread  it  in  mid-air  came  out 
to  mingle  with  the  throng  in  the  full  glory  of  worsted 
tights  and  tarnished  spangles.  This  mountebank 
passed  tiptoeing  through  the  crowd,  hat  in  hand, 
to  test  the  public  appetite  for  the  aerial  art  he 
practised.  At  intervals  he  would  mount  to  the 
roof,  and  show  himself  in  statuesque  attitudes,  as  if 
about  to  dance  out  over  the  people's  heads.  This 
ruse  to  whet  the  popular  interest  in  his  exhibition 
he  followed  by  swift  descents  to  the  street,  where 
the  taking  of  the  collection  would  be  renewed. 

It  was  on  one  of  these  excursions  that  the  fellow 
was  accosted  by  an  indignant  citizen  of  the  village 
who  would  have  shamed  him  for  trying  to  ply  his 
trade  on  such  a  day.  The  glib  tongue  of  the  rope- 
walker  quickly  drove  the  good  man  from  the  street. 

"  The  Sheriff  shall  stop  this  ghastly  sacrilege," 
the  citizen  cried  in  his  ire,  and  followed  by  a  hun 
dred  men,  some  of  his  mind,  some  of  the  other's 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  325 

and  some  of  no  mind  at  all,  he  went  to  the  jail  to 
lodge  complaint. 

It  was  no  ordinary  thing  to  invoke  the  authority 
of  the  Sheriff,  and  it  goes  without  saying,  everyone 
was  anxious  to  see  what  came  of  it. 

It  was  the  self-same  citizen  who  brought  out  the 
startling  news  that  there  might  be  no  execution 
after  all.  This  was  the  first  inkling  the  village  had 
of  what  was  in  the  wind. 

"  A  reprieve  is  coming  !  "  was  the  word  that  took 
wing  through  Morristown.  It  was  soon  on  every 
body's  tongue.  The  people  jammed  and  huddled 
against  the  jail  building  in  a  senseless  crush.  You 
could  not  say  they  were  sorry  or  glad  of  what  had 
come  to  their  ears.  There  was  a  burst  of  laughter 
when  the  rope-walker's  regalia  had  suffered  mutila 
tion  by  rough  handling  in  the  unruly  crowd.  A 
woman  fainted  and  a  baby  squalled.  The  Sheriff 
now  appeared  at  the  door,  and  he  was  greeted  by 
instant  silence.  All  that  he  would  say  was  that 
possibly  the  sentence  of  death  would  not  be  ex 
ecuted  that  day.  and  that  in  all  probability  a 
reprieve  from  the  Governor  was  on  its  way  to 
Morristown.  Fifty  watches  clicked  to  a  single 
impulse.  What  was  the  hour  ? 

"  They've  got  to  git  here  afore  twelve  o'clock,  or 


326  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

he's  got  ter  go  ;  that's  what  I  say,"  said  a  gruff 
voice.  It  was  Sime  Benson  who  was  speaking,  and 
in  his  steely  eyes  there  was  a  wolfish  gleam.  "  He 
ain't  got  long  ter  wait  :  that's  what  I  say." 

True  enough.  If  the  drop  of  the  gallows  was  to 
be  timed  to  the  swing  of  the  pendulum,  Lyman 
Disbrow  had  not  an  hour  to  live.  It  was  past 
eleven  o'clock  on  his  doomsday.  Inside  that  prison 
of  stone  they  were  taxing  their  hearing  for  the  first 
sounds  of  the  expected  messenger.  It  was  Win 
who  had  told  his  father  a  reprieve  might  come  and 
of  the  negro's  story  on  which  their  hopes  rested. 
This  was  Bess's  right,  but  she  joyfully  gave  it  to 
Win.  With  Dorothy  she  kept  a  vigil  at  an  upper 
window  commanding  the  road  over  which  the  re 
prieve  must  come,  holding  up  with  such  strength  as 
God  had  given  her  to  wait  on  that  fearful  uncer 
tainty.  There  might  have  been  an  end  to  it  at  any 
moment,  the  strain  was  so  hard,  were  this  all  her 
duty.  But  she  must  keep  the  Sheriff  to  his  prom 
ise  to  let  his  dial  record  a  false  reckoning  of  the 
time.  It  was  to  be  twelve  o'clock  until  it  was  one, 
and  one  o'clock  until  it  was  two.  After  that  the 
law  must  take  its  course. 

So  they  watched  and  waited.  All  other  eyes  in 
Morristown  peered  towards  the  North,  between  the 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  327 

parted  hillsides  through  which  at  the  end  of 
eighteen  long  miles  the  message  of  life  must  be 
carried  if  it  came  in  time.  Nothing  could  have 
diverted  that  intense  gaze.  People  spoke  under 
the  breath,  lest  ordinary  conversation  might  cheat 
them  of  the  earliest  warning.  The  neigh  of  a  horse 
seemed  to  have  the  resonance  of  thunder,  so  still 
the  village  was.  The  twitter  of  the  birds,  which 
was  music  as  Lyme  Disbrow  listened,  rang  like  a 
discord  on  the  common  ear. 

Would  the  reprieve  come  ?  This  was  what  every 
heart  was  asking.  Thus  the  sands  of  a  man's  life 
were  running  out,  while  a  race  against  death,  un 
seen,  unheard,  unknown,  was  turning  a  country  road 
into  an  Olympian  arena. 

The  reprieve  was  coming ! 

Morgan  Thurston  and  Dick  Richards  had  come 
as  far  as  the  rails  would  carry  them,  and,  as  for  the 
rest,  it  was  with  them  and  their  horses.  It  was 
asking  a  great  deal  on  such  an  errand  as  theirs  to 
encumber  their  journey  with  a  third  man  ;  but  there 
was  no  help  for  it,  as  the  negro  had  been  put  under 
arrest,  and  the  officer  from  Albany  was  not  to  be 
left  behind.  In  vain  Thurston  had  pleaded  that 
precious  time  could  be  saved  by  letting  him  be  the 
messenger;  but  he  could  not  have  his  way — the 
reprieve  and  the  prisoner  must  go  together. 


328  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

It  was  an  unmerciful  employment  of  horseflesh, 
as  under  a  tireless  lash  they  plunged  madly  forward. 
One  after  another,  they  swept  past  the  little 
settlements  that  marked  the  way,  throwing  each 
community  into  a  passing  tremour  of  excitement  as 
they  faded  from  sight  like  wraiths  in  a  tempest,  leav 
ing  the  astonished  inhabitants  gaping  after  them  in 
a  state  of  supernatural  dread.  If  the  strange 
vision  took  on  a  form  less  weird  the  comment  of 
the  road  went  to  the  other  extreme  of  conjecture. 

"  Horse  thieves ! "  some  cried.  "  Guess  the 
Loomis  gang  knows  where  the  Sheriff  is  to-day." 

Where  the  dust  lay  thick  on  the  track  they 
travelled,  they  sent  it  curling  into  the  sky,  fantas 
tically  shaped  and  mountainous  in  height  ;  as 
through  the  thick  of  it  they  urged  the  horses  on 
and  sent  them  panting  for  breath  into  the  free  air 
again.  In  the  hollows  of  the  road,  mired  by  the 
trickling  crevices  that  topped  the  frowning  ravines, 
the  wagon  rolled  in  a  blinding  spatter.  Here,  where 
the  roughness  of  the  way  denied  them  full  speed, 
the  horses  were  hauled  to  a  trot,  and  the  three  men 
gasped  for  breath,  while  Thurston  told  off  the 
passing  time  by  hurried  glances  at  the  face  of  his 
watch.  But  these  respites  were  few  and  far 
between.  There  was  too  much  at  stake  to  spare 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  329 

the  beasts  or  their  burden,  and  although  the  pace 
was  telling  on  man  and  beast  alike,  they  kept  it 
heartlessly,  forgetting  peril,  fatigue  and  all,  as  long 
as  they  hammered  out  the  dreary  miles  that 
stretched  out  before  them. 

At  Mile  Strip  a  hame  strap  parted  and  let  the 
wagon  tongue  down  in  the  road,  and  shot  the  three 
passengers  in  a  heap  out  of  their  seats,  upon  the 
sweltering  horses'  backs,  all  scrambling  for  safe 
positions.  Once  down  they  found  the  repairs 
were  to  be  readily  accomplished,  but  looking  into 
the  faces  of  the  wretched  animals,  whose  endurance 
was  their  hope,  they  noted  their  bloody  nostrils, 
their  leaden  eyes,  their  broken  wind.  It  was  plain 
the  horses  were  spent.  They  would  not  last  the 
rest  of  the  trip. 

"We'll  drive  them  as  far  as  we  can,"  Thurston 
said.  "There's  nothing  else  to  do.  Every  horse 
in  the  county  is  in  Morristown  to-day." 

"  The  thing's  all  over  with  before  this,"  the 
officer  put  in.  "  I  don't  believe  the  Sheriff  would 
dare  wait.  This  kind  of  driving  is  all  damned 
foolishness.  You're  too  late  now." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you,"  Thurston  replied 
savagely.  "  There's  a  God  in  Israel.  The  truth  He 
made  this  man  tell  is  not  to  go  for  nothing." 


330  THE  RED  ANVIL, 

Dick's  nimble  fingers  had  now  supplied  a  fasten 
ing  in  the  broken  harness. 

"  If  the  hosses  done  guv  out,"  the  negro  said, 
speaking  for  the  first  time,  "  111  git  dat  paper 
dar  if  you'll  let  me.  Tain't  more'n  ten  mile  an  I 
kin  run  it/' 

"  We'll  all  go  tog-ether  or  not  at  all,"  the  officer 

o  o 

said.    "  I'm  going  to   deliver  my  prisoner   and  the 
reprieve  at  the  same  time." 

"Jump  in,  then/'  cried  Thurston,  and  the  next 
moment  they  were  again  in  motion.  The  hors.es 
showed  signs  of  refreshment  as  the  result  of  their 
short  rest  and  resumed  the  race  as  if  they  meant 
to  finish  it.  Giving  this  encouragement,  they  were 
urged  to  do  their  best,  and  they  did  it  to  the  top  of 
their  ability,  which  lengthened  the  drive  not  over  a 
mile.  Then  the  nigh  horse  sank  on  his  knees  as  if 
he  had  been  struck  with  a  sledge-hammer.  His  head 
was  waving  in  a  death  struggle.  His  legs  quivered, 
then  stiffened — and  he  was  dead  on  the  turnpike. 
The  other  horse,  rearing  in  the  entangled  harness, 
was  hurled  off  his  feet  by  the  momentum  of  the 
wagon  at  his  heels  and  fell  in  a  mesh  of  broken 
straps  beside  his  mate.  The  wagon  had  careened, 
and  from  their  places  the  three  men  were  pitched 
headlong  out.  The  officer  was  writhing  in  a  stiite 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  331 

of  insensibility  in  a  ditch.  Thurston's  plight  was 
scarcely  less  serious,  for,  while  he  still  had  his  wits 
about  him,  he  was  unable  to  rise  on  the  maimed 
legs  twisted  under  him.  Richards  had  not  been  so 
unlucky,  it  seemed  ;  as  he  managed  to  pick  him 
self  up  when  the  first  shock  was  over. 

"  Thank  God  you're  left,"  Thurston  murmured. 
"  Hurry,  man.  Get  the  horses  up,  and  get  us 
started  again." 

The  negro  was  swift  to  obey.  He  reached  down 
to  grip  the  head  of  the  dead  horse,  but  his  arm 
swung  limp  and  useless  at  his  side.  A  bone  had 
snapped  in  the  fall.  A  second  look  showed 
Richards  how  desperate  was  their  situation,  with 
one  horse  a  carcass,  and  the  other  dead  beat  beyond 
all  doubt.  The  poor  beast  sprawled  in  a  helpless 
mass  on  a  splintered  wagon-tongue,  jerking  the 
buckles  and  leather  apart  as  his  taut  muscles 
relaxed  in  spasmodic  pain. 

The  negro  did  not  have  to  speak.  Thurston  had 
crawled  near  enough  to  see  how  complete  the  wreck 
was. 

"  There's  only  one  way,"  he  groaned.  "  Have 
you  strength  enough  to  go  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  take  it." 


332  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

The  negro  was  kneeling  beside  the  prostrate 
officer  in  the  space  of  a  breath.  The  reprieve  was 
inside  his  buttoned  coat.  At  the  first  motion  to 
take  it  from  him,  the  officer  opened  his  eyes,  and 
clutched  wildly  in  the  air.  Richards  pinned  him 
to  the  earth  and  snatched  the  packet  from  the 
loosened  folds  of  the  coat  with  the  one  hand  that 
was  good  for  anything. 

The  negro  gripped  the  packet  hard  between  his 
fingers.  He  stood  fast  at  the  side  of  the  man  he 
had  undone.  The  light  of  triumph  shone  out  of 
his  eyes,  a  light  almost  ferocious,  that  said  in  a 
thousand  tongues  that  he  was  master  of  the  situa 
tion. 

"  You'll  take  it  there,  Richards  ?  "  Thurston  found 
strength  to  ask,  raising  himself  by  a  supreme  effort 
and  transfixing  the  negro  with  a  look. 

"  Yes." 

"  A  life — an  innocent  man's  life — depends  on  you. 
You  know  what  it  means  to  you  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"You  do  not  fear — you'll  not  fail?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  go." 

With  this  promise  on  his  lips  Dick  Richards  left 
his  companions  to  whatever  luck  might  come  their 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  333 

way.  His  fist  was  closed  around  the  packet  as  he 
sped  with  all  the  strength  of  a  practised  runner  over 
the  highway.  It  was  not  long  before  he  knew  the 
odds  were  not  in  his  favour.  His  broken  arm,  hang 
ing  loose  where  every  footstep  jarred  its  shivered 
bone,  racked  his  whole  frame  with  the  tortures  of  the 
damned.  The  chimney  of  a  farm  house  lifted  above 
the  crest  of  a  hill  he  was  breasting.  He  would  stop 
there  he  thought  and  beg  a  strip  of  cloth  for  a  sling. 
To  go  on  as  he  was  was  impossible.  An  overgrown 
boy,  coatless  and  bare-headed,  with  a  red  apple  for 
a  face  and  huge  hands  as  lumpy  as  a  potato,  rode 
out  into  the  road  on  the  back  of  a  springy  horse,  as 
Richards  came  running  up. 

The  negro  put  his  request  for  the  sling  in  hurried 
words.  The  stupid  boy  snuffled  and  grinned,  but 
made  no  sign  of  doing  the  simple  kindness.  With 
out  further  parley  Richards,  as  if  seized  by  a  sudden 
inspiration,  caught  the  clumsy  rider  by  the  collar 
and  shook  him  from  the  horse's  back.  The  mount 
was  difficult  on  account  of  his  disablement,  but,  be 
fore  the  blubbering  bumpkin  comprehended  what 
had  happened,  the  negro  was  astride  the  animal, 
well  started  in  his  flight. 

The  pair  was  well  mated.  Horse  and  rider  were 
of  the  same  mind,  that  was  certain,  for  the  gait  they 


334  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

struck  was  to  test  what  both  could  do.  The  mare 
thought  it  a  frolic.  She  was  a  colt  and  knew  no 
better.  She  did  know,  or  gave  every  sign  of  know 
ing  it,  that  she  was  under  a  rider  who  prized  mettle, 
and  to  prove  herself  worthy  of  praise  she  matched 
her  footfalls  against  the  wind.  It  was  as  if  she  felt 
the  thrill  that  was  in  her  rider's  breast.  Then  Dick 
was  saying  things  to  the  horse  as  in  an  arc  of  steel  he 
bowed  his  sinewy  legs  around  her  unsaddled  back, 
and,  tightening  his  heels  under  her  loins,  went 
splitting  the  air  through  mile  on  mile  of  distance. 
Her  hide  was  as  greasy  as  a  frying-pan  under  his 
weight,  compelling  him  to  put  the  loop  of  the  rein 
over  his  good  wrist,  and  knit  his  fingers  into  her 
mane  where  the  glossy  hair  took  root.  Spume 
poured  out  of  her  mouth  ;  lather  rolled  off  her  flanks. 

"  Nearly  dar,  nearly  dar !  "  the  negro  repeated 
with  every  spare  breath. 

All  this  time  the  good  mare  showed  that  there  is 
a  bottom  even  to  the  best  that  is  in  a  horse.  The 
smooth  neck  was  growing  less  rigid,  the  stride  more 
uneven,  the  ears  as  limp  as  rags.  Richards's  arm 
ached  cruelly,  but  his  suffering  only  drew  the 
muscles  by  which  he  held  his  seat  into  harder  knots. 
If  his  mount  lasted,  he  would.  His  pain  had  made 
him  numb. 


THE  RED  ANVIL.  335 

"  Nearly  dar,  honey ! "  he  said  over  and  over 
again. 

A  demon  on  a  demon  horse,  he  went  lunging  into 
the  cleft  of  the  hill  that  set  him  squarely  into  the 
staring  eyes  of  all  Morristown.  An  outcry  that  be 
gan  in  a  low  murmur  and  burst  into  a  clangour  of 
tongues  greeted  their  coming.  If  Dick  Richards 
heard  it,  he  gave  no  outward  token  that  his  senses 
were  his  own.  But  the  uplift  of  the  voices  as  he 
swept  by  the  selvage  of  the  crowd  into  its  very 
heart,  where  it  opened  a  way  for  him,  gave  the  jaded 
beast  who  bore  him  the  prick  of  new  life.  She  gave 
a  tremendous  lurch  forward,  as  if  unhaltered  for  a 
gambol  in  the  meadow  grass,  and  would  have  rushed 
on,  leaving  the  jail  at  her  rear,  had  not  a  hundred 
men  flung  up  their  arms  as  a  signal  to  stop.  The 
mare's  drooping  neck  went  up  in  fright ;  her  fore 
legs  wedged  in  the  hard  earth  of  the  streets ;  and  her 
spine  arched  like  a  cat's  as  she  stumbled  and  fell, 
throwing  her  rider  headforemost  twice  the  length 
of  his  body  beyond. 

In  the  death  grip  of  Dick  Richards  was  held  the 
packet  he  had  brought.  The  fall  had  broken  his 
neck.  It  was  Win  Disbrow  who  unlocked  the 
negro's  fingers  from  the  crumpled  paper  and  told 
the  murmuring  people  that  he  was  dead.  A  higher 


336  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

law   than    man's    mocked  at    the  lauded  thing    of 
man's  invention. 

It  was  not  yet  two  o'clock  of  this  May-day  after 
noon  when  Win  and  Bess  went  behind  the  prison 
walls  to  receive  Lyme  Disbrow's  blessing. 


APPENDIX. 


THERE  was  warrant  of  law  in  the  United  States 
for  the  recovery  of  fugitive  slaves  from  July  13,  1787, 
on  which  date  there  was  inserted  in  the  Northwest 
Ordinance  a  clause  providing  that  when  "  any  person 
escaping  into  the  same  [Northwest  Territory  ]  from 
whom  labour  or  service  is  lawfully  claimed  in  any  of 
the  original  States,  such  fugitive  may  be  lawfully 
reclaimed  and  conveyed  to  the  person  claiming  his 
or  her  labour  or  service." 


September  13,  of  the  same  year,  the  Federal  Con 
stitution  was  amended  to  protect  the  right  of  recov 
ery  of  fugitive  slaves  escaping  into  States  which  by 
"  law  or  regulation  "  had  attempted  to  offer  them 
an  asylum. 

February  12,  1793,  the  first  Fugitive  Slave  Law 
was  enacted  by  Congress.  This  enactment  required 
the  Governors  of  all  States  in  the  Union  and  of  the 
Territories  northwest  or  south  of  the  Ohio  river  to 


338  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

give  executive  authority  for  the  arrest  of  persons 
charged  with  treason,  felony  and  other  crimes  in 
States  other  than  their  own,  and  on  satisfactory  evi 
dence  of  guilt  being  produced,  to  secure  the  delivery 
of  such  persons  to  the  States  demanding  them. 
This  law  gave  to  owners  of  slaves  the  right  to  sum 
marily  seize  fugitives,  but  invested  the  circuit  or 
district  courts  of  the  United  States  with  the  sole 
power  to  pass  upon  the  evidence  produced  in  justifi« 
cation  of  such  arrest  or  seizure.  Identity  of  the 
supposed  fugitive  was  to  be  established  by  "  proof 
to  the  satisfaction  of  such  judge  or  magistrate," 
which  being  furnished  gave  the  certificate  of  the 
court  immediate  effect  as  a  warrant  of  removal  of 
the  fugitive  by  the  claimant.  Any  interference 
with  the  execution  of  the  law,  through  obstruction 
of  the  claimant,  rescue  or  concealment  of  the  fugi 
tive,  if  known  to  be  such  by  the  offender,  was  pun 
ishable  by  a  fine  of  five  hundred  dollars. 


February  18,  1850,  was  the  date  of  the  enactment 
of  the  second  Fugitive  Slave  Law.  It  was  an  act 
supplementary  to  the  act  of  1793.  By  it  a  new 
tribunal  was  erected  for  the  decision  of  the  various 
questions  arising  out  of  the  arrest  of  fugitive  slaves 
in  the  free  States,  In  the  exercise  of  this  authority 


APPENDIX.  339 

the  courts  were  virtually  superseded  by  hearings 
authorized  to  be  held  by  commissioners  appointed 
by  act  of  Congress  or  by  the  circuit  courts  of  the 
United  States.  These  commissioners  were  given 
the  largest  magisterial  powers.  The  marshals  and 
deputy  marshals  of  the  United  States  were  placed 
under  their  authority,  and  they  had  power  as  well 
to  appoint  without  restriction  other  officers  with 
coordinate  authority,  and  to  "  call  to  their  aid  the 
bystanders,  or  posse  comitatus"  more  effectually  to 
enforce  the  law.  An  officer  who  after  the  arrest  of 
a  fugitive  allowed  his  prisoner  to  escape,  "with  or 
without  the  assent  of  such  officer,"  became  liable  for 
damages  to  the  claimant  based  on  the  value  of  the 
slave  so  escaping.  Refusal  on  the  part  of  an  officer 
to  execute  a  warrant,  or  other  process,  was  punisha 
ble  by  a  fine  of  one  thousand  dollars,  on  motion  of 
the  claimant.  All  good  citizens  were  commanded 
by  the  law  to  aid  and  assist  in  its  execution. 

The  most  drastic  provision  of  this  law  was  that 
which  permitted  the  owner,  or  the  agent  or  attorney 
of  the  same,  to  seize  a  fugitive  slave  in  any  State  or 
Territory  where  found,  without  warrant  or  other 
process.  Such  seizure  having  been  made,  it  was  re 
quired  that  the  prisoner  should  be  taken  forthwith 
before  a  Federal  judge,  or  a  commissioner,  whose 


340  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

duty  was  defined  to  be  "  to  determine  the  case  of 
the  claimant  in  a  summary  manner."  In  the  event 
of  the  claimant's  being  able  to  present  to  the  judge 
or  commissioner  a  "  deposition,"  "  affidavit,"  or 
"  other  satisfactory  testimony,"  taken  or  made  un 
der  the  laws  of  the  State  or  Territory  from  which 
the  fugitive  might  have  escaped,  and  bearing  the  seal 
of  "  some  legal  officer,  or  court,"  this  seal  was  to  be 
deemed  competent  proof  of  the  identity  of  the 
fugitive  and  the  claimant  was  to  be  afforded  the 
protection  of  the  law  in  returning  the  fugitive  to 
the  State  or  Territory  whence  he  or  she  might  have 
escaped.  It  was  further  provided  that  "  in  no  trial 
or  hearing  shall  the  testimony  of  the  alleged  fugitive 
be  admitted  in  evidence."  In  plain  terms  the 
claim  of  ownership  was  to  be  established  on  ex  part 't 
evidence.  Identification  rested  on  the  record  of  the 
court,  or  "  legal  officer,"  to  which  the  claimant  first 
appealed  in  his  own  State.  This  record  the  law 
described  as  "  a  general  description  of  the  person  so 
escaping,  with  such  convenient  certainty  as  may 
be,"  and  provided  that  the  record,  "  being  exhibited 
to  any  judge,  commissioner,  or  other  officer  author 
ized  by  the  law  of  the  United  States  to  cause  per 
sons  escaping  from  service  or  labour  to  be  delivered 
up,  shall  be  held  and  taken  to  be  full  and  conclusive 


APPENDIX.  341 

evidence  of  the  fact  of  escape,  and  that  the  service 
or  labour  of  the  person  escaping  is  due  to  the  party 
in  such  record  mentioned."  In  the  absence  of  such 
record  identity  could  be  established  by  "  other  satis 
factory  proofs." 

Interference  with  the  law,  either  before  or  after 
the  arrest  of  a  fugitive,  was  covered  by  a  far-reach 
ing  clause.  Persons  who  concealed  or  harboured  a 
mnaway  slave,  knowing  him  or  her  to  be  such,  were 
liable  to  a  fine  of  one  thousand  dollars  and  imprison 
ment  for  six  months.  To  aid  or  abet  an  escape,  or 
an  attempted  escape,  or  in  any  other  way  lend  as 
sistance  to  the  defeat  of  the  law,  was  made  a  crime  of 
equal  enormity.  In  addition  the  claimant  of  the 
fugitive  was  afforded  civil  redress  against  obstruc 
tion,  a  value  of  one  thousand  dollars  being  placed 
on  each  slave  lost  through  circumvention  of  the 
law. 

In  the  way  of  fees  for  the  apprehension  and  trans 
portation  of  fugitives  the  law  provided  an  induce 
ment  well-calculated  to  appeal  to  the  mercenary 
instinct.  The  foundation  of  this  system  of  payment 
was  ten  dollars  a  head  for  each  arrest  of  a  fugitive 
proved  to  be  such ;  five  dollars  in  a  case  where  the 
proof  failed.  Additional  fees  covering  the  service 
of  processes,  attendance  on  court,  the  care  of  the 


342  THE  RED  ANVIL. 

prisoner,  etc.,  were  limited  only  by  the  discretion 
of  the  court,  or  commissioner.  An  officer  charged 
with  the  duty  of  transporting  a  fugitive  back  to  the 
State  or  Territory  from  which  he  might  have  escaped 
was  allowed  "  to  employ  so  many  persons  as  he 
deemed  necessary  "  to  overcome  such  force  as  he 
suspected  might  be  encountered  in  that  effort. 


Date  Due 


000  551  557     2 


